


Riding Lessons

by menel



Category: Lord of the Rings (Movies), Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/M, Horse Culture, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Seduction, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-26
Updated: 2012-12-26
Packaged: 2017-11-22 12:38:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 41,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/609890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/menel/pseuds/menel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thranduil and his family have sailed West leaving Legolas as the new King of Greenwood. Legolas decides that a horse trade with the King of Rohan is in order.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. An After-Dinner Party

**Author's Note:**

> Setting: Post-RotK, AU 
> 
> This fic was written for the excellent Waters of Cuivienen Fest Challenge in 2003. Many thanks and praises to my beta readers [zasjah](http://zasjah.livejournal.com) and Panthera. 
> 
> This is dedicated to [dodger_sister](http://dodger-sister.livejournal.com) for putting up with me. You rock!

Éomer closed the door to his chamber behind him and stepped onto the silent hallway. He was still unfamiliar with the layout of the Greenwood palace, but was certain that he would be able to find his way to the southwest wing where he had been instructed to go. It was the night before Legolas’s coronation as the new King of Eryn Lasgalen, and the Prince was throwing a private party as his “farewell to the carefree life” as Haldir had called it earlier that eve, teasing his dear friend mercilessly about assuming the responsibilities of a ruler. Responsibilities that the Prince thought he would never have to bear; responsibilities that Éomer had learnt well during his ten-year reign.

With a look in either direction, the Horse Lord finally turned right and proceeded down the hallway. Moonlight streamed through the open archways easily lighting his path, and the Man marveled at the architecture of the Elven palace. He had been shocked to discover that the Elven city was constructed in the earth. From the little he understood of the race, he had gleaned that Elves did not like dark places; needing to be surrounded by light, air and nature. However, the Silvan Elves loved their great forest so much that their city remained well concealed upon the ground. Indeed, Éomer and his entourage had crossed a wide bridge built over a strong, swift flowing river in order to enter the Greenwood palace. At the far end of the bridge were gates to the mouth of a huge cave that ran into the side of a steep slope covered with beech trees that came straight down to the bank, until their roots were lost in the dark water. 

Éomer had regarded the cavernous entrance skeptically as he had approached the magical gates. He did not think that their horses would be too keen to enter its torch-lit darkness, but their steeds remained unperturbed and strode forward confidently. Instead of feeling apprehension, the animals felt the welcoming presence of Elvish peace and the guards on duty soothed the steeds as they passed. The party had followed a mounted Elven guard through the winding passages, which intersected with numerous other paths. To his surprise, the air was fresh and clear in the passageways indicating to the Rohan King that they were not very deep in the earth. After what had seemed like a long time to the party, they emerged into daylight and bustling city life. Éomer then realized that the Elven city was multi-layered in structure, not unlike Minas Tirith. Some inhabitants lived and worked in the various underground levels, where the dungeons were no doubt kept in the deepest folds of the earth. The numerous passageways that they had encountered could lead to any part of the Elven kingdom, if only one knew the way. However, the majority of the inhabitants lived in the shallow levels of the city or above ground, carefully shielded from strangers and enemies by the steep slope of the mountainside. Éomer was in awe of the size and scope of the city, and he had looked about him in admiration as he dismounted in the palace courtyard. 

The Horse Lord’s admiration continued to grow with each passing day. His delegation had arrived three days prior to Legolas’s official coronation, to enjoy and acquaint themselves with Elvish culture and festivities. It had been a wise decision and Éomer quickly found himself falling in love with the beauty and tranquility that permeated all that surrounded him. He ruefully wished that he could have come earlier as he walked down the empty hallway, but affairs of state had kept him occupied until the last moment. The clicking of his boots sounded loud to his ears as he turned right and he self-consciously ran his hand down his garments, wondering if he had overdressed. Or perhaps underdressed? Legolas had told them that the party was to be a casual affair, but judging by the finery and embroidery that Éomer saw in the simplest of Elven clothes gave the Horse Lord pause. What exactly was simple and casual defined in Elvish terms? 

It did not matter, he decided as he caught sight of the light peeping under the large double doors at the end of the hallway. He was wearing his oldest, most comfortable pair of riding boots. They were hardly appropriate for a formal dinner, but were quite at home at an informal affair. He smiled to himself as he pushed open one of the oak doors and was immediately greeted by the sound of laughter and conversation. Even if he was overdressed, the boots told another story. 

The party appeared to be in full swing and Éomer’s entrance went unnoticed, exactly how the King of Rohan preferred it to be. Goblets were full and wine flowed freely, and in the center of the large room a long table had been decked out with more sumptuous Elvish fare. As if they had not been sufficiently fed at the banquet earlier that eve, the Man thought with amusement, pouring himself a goblet of wine and observing those in attendance. It came as no surprise that most of those present were Elves, the Greenwood folk easily mixing with their Lórien kin. Éomer recognized some faces: Gwaidor, one of Thranduil’s senior advisors was speaking with Lindfir, the Elven noble whom Éomer suspected that Legolas would send to Ithilien to replace him. A merry burst of laughter drew the Man’s attention to a small group at the far end of the hall, where Haldir was recounting some tale that held all around him in thrall. With the Guardian were his brothers, Rúmil and Orophin. The only competition the Lórien Elves received were from the Dwarves of the Glittering Caves, who did not appear to be able to attend any function without starting some sort of drinking competition. Gimli raised a hand in greeting and Éomer reciprocated the gesture with his goblet. 

As the Horse Lord continued to survey the guests, it dawned upon him that there was not a single female present. He spotted the Prince of Dol Amroth, who acknowledged Éomer’s presence with a smile and a nod of his head. Imrahil had been accompanied on this visit by his fair daughter, Lothíriel. It was no great secret that she was to be paired with the King of Rohan and while Éomer had not formally begun the courtship, he found himself amenable to the match. Lothíriel did not stir any great passion within him, but she was intelligent and kind and would no doubt make a good wife and a strong queen. Moreover, such a union would strengthen the ties between Gondor and Rohan, an already valuable alliance. But most importantly, he believed that Lothíriel would be a gentle and loving mother, and that issue was the driving force behind his courtship, for the King of Rohan had long felt the pressure of producing an heir. 

A tap on his shoulder made the Horse Lord turn around and he was brought face-to-face with a smiling Steward of Gondor. 

“Good of you to join us, Éomer,” Faramir said jovially. 

“It’s good to be here,” Éomer replied. “And I can see,” he added, appraising the Steward’s slightly tipsy state, “that you have been here longer than I have.” 

Faramir merely laughed in response. “Legolas is a generous host who serves excellent wine,” he explained. “But he is also a good friend,” he added more seriously, “and I shall greatly miss him in Ithilien.” 

“Speaking of our host,” Éomer continued with another glance around, “where is Legolas?” 

“I saw him with Aragorn last,” Faramir said. “They were engrossed in conversation and wandered off somewhere. I’m sure they’ll be back soon.” 

No sooner had Faramir said these words than the double doors opened and the Elf and the Man came in. Unlike Éomer’s entrance a few moments before, there was the briefest pause in activity to acknowledge their return and the slightest nod from Legolas immediately resumed the festivities. Not breaking their discussion, the two friends headed straight to where Faramir and Éomer stood by the banquet table. The Horse Lord watched them as they approached, noting how at ease they were with one another. They share a long history, Éomer thought, and a bond of the deepest friendship. Éomer believed that no one, aside from the King’s own wife, could bring down Aragorn’s defenses so easily. He suspected that even after ten years of rule, Aragorn still felt more in touch with his Elvish heritage. 

As the two friends drew nearer, Éomer easily caught the tail end of their conversation. 

“Call it what you may,” Aragorn was saying, “but this is what we humans would call a bachelor party if I ever saw one.” 

“I disagree,” Legolas countered with a shake of his head. 

“Really?” The Man stopped no more than two feet from where Éomer stood and said with a sweep of his hand, “Tell me, Legolas. How many females do you see present in this room?” 

The Elf paused and looked around with a sigh, already knowing the answer. “I hardly think that is the point,” he said at last. 

Aragorn laughed in such a carefree manner that it brought a smile to Éomer’s face. The King of Gondor clapped a hand on his friend’s shoulder, leaning forward slightly as he said, “Yes, Legolas. That is precisely the point.” 

A devious smile began to curve around the corners of the Elf’s mouth as he covered the Man’s hand with his own and gently squeezed it. A strangely intimate gesture, Éomer thought, suddenly feeling like an intruder but remaining compelled to watch all the same. Legolas also leaned forward slightly and lowered his voice so that Éomer hardly caught his words above the noise of the crowd. 

“I know this is no bachelor party,” the Elf began quietly, “for if it were, there would be a present waiting for me in my chambers when I return. A gift, Aragorn,” Legolas paused, his melodic voice laced with an emotion that Éomer could not place, “that you can no longer return.” 

Aragorn’s eyes grew soft and his jesting manner faded. Éomer half-expected him to reach out and brush the Elf’s cheek with his other hand, but he did not. 

“It is a gift I have long cherished,” the Man answered, “and will never forget.” 

Legolas beamed. It was a smile so warm and dazzling that it made Éomer wonder if his words or actions could ever affect another one so. The Horse Lord understood that he was privy to something special, a side to their friendship never before neither seen nor hinted at. If Éomer were to try and make sense of this exchange, it might have lead to the startling conclusion that perhaps they had once been . . .

The moment passed. Éomer did not even see the Elf release the Man’s hand, nor Aragorn loosen his grip on Legolas’s shoulder. The two friends were speaking once again in their light-hearted manner, causing Éomer to doubt the implications of the scene he had just witnessed. He turned to his right to see if Faramir had taken note of anything, but Lindfir, who had joined their small group, had already drawn the Steward into conversation. 

“I suppose I could always find a substitute,” Legolas remarked as they bridged the remaining distance to where the threesome stood. 

“Do you concede then that this is a bachelor party?” Aragorn persisted. 

“I concede nothing of the sort,” Legolas retorted just as they reached the group. “For a bachelor party,” he continued, “would imply that I am getting married in the morn. Which I am not,” he added with a tilt of his head, catching the Horse Lord’s eye as he did so. 

Legolas held Éomer’s gaze, a slight smile on his lips. Did the Elf suspect that he had been listening in on their conversation? It made the Man feel slightly uncomfortable to think so and he took a sip of his wine, trying to remain cool and collected under the Elf’s discreet scrutiny. 

“What say you, Faramir?” Aragorn asked his Steward, drawing the others into the discussion. “Would you consider this ‘gathering’ to be a bachelor party?” 

Lindfir raised an amused eyebrow, waiting to see what the Steward would say, while Éomer cocked his head, still acutely aware of the Elf’s eyes on him. 

“I would say,” Faramir began diplomatically, “that while this gathering bears the characteristics of a ‘bachelor party’ it does not qualify as such because no wedding ceremony shall follow it.” 

Legolas’s smile grew wider as he replied, “This is why the Prince of Ithilien is your most valuable emissary,” he praised. “Faramir,” he said, raising his glass in a congratulatory salute, “ever the diplomat.” 

“My thanks, Legolas,” he answered. “But you are none too shoddy in this area yourself as I have seen during your time in Ithilien.” 

“You will find, Faramir,” Legolas answered, “that Lindfir is just as adept.” 

“Elven diplomacy,” Lindfir commented, “is somewhat different from its Dwarven counterpart. Would you agree with that statement, Éomer?” 

“I have found that under the right circumstances,” the Horse Lord said, “the brandishing of an axe is a most effective form of diplomacy.” 

“As long as the axe is not brandished at you or your people!” Legolas added with a mischievous grin. 

The group laughed good-naturedly. 

“Speaking of which,” Aragorn said to his Steward when the laughter faded away, “there is an issue I need to discuss with you. Lindfir, it would be good if you joined us.” The King of Gondor turned to his long-time friend and said, “Legolas, would you excuse us?” 

“Only if you promise _not_ to discuss affairs of state at my party,” the Elf replied, arching a golden eyebrow. 

“We shall do our best,” Lindfir answered in the King’s stead. 

“Flexing those diplomatic skills, I see,” Aragorn commented lightly to the Elven noble as the group went their own way. 

Éomer watched them leave, a half-smile on his face. He was aware of the Elf’s eyes on him once again and when he turned to his left, he was greeted by another one of Legolas’s unreadable expressions. _How did Aragorn ever come to know this being so well?_ the Horse Lord wondered. 

Legolas smiled then and moved to pour himself a goblet of wine. Éomer unabashedly followed the Elf’s actions, carefully taking note of the delicate wrists, the graceful manner in which Legolas poured the wine from the carafe, the slender fingers enclosed around the bronze goblet. Would the Elf’s hands be smooth like a woman of noble birth or were they worn with calluses from centuries of sword fighting and archery? The King of Rohan was startled by this last thought and did not have the faintest idea what to make of it. 

“How are you enjoying your stay?” Legolas asked suddenly, easing the tension that had started to fill Éomer’s mind. 

“I am enjoying it immensely,” the Man replied. “Your city is magnificent, Legolas.” 

The Elf smiled and acknowledged the compliment, gesturing that the two of them should sit down at a table. Lightly grasping Éomer by the arm, Legolas led them through the crowd to a small corner table at the opposite end of the room, passing by Haldir’s group along the way. Éomer continued the conversation as they walked, talking animatedly about his experiences in Eryn Lasgalen, not giving any sign as to how distracted he was by the gentle pressure of the Elf’s hand on his arm, nor the way Legolas smiled and tilted his head to nod in agreement. 

“My only regret,” the Horse Lord concluded as they took their seats opposite each other, “ is that I could not arrive sooner.” 

“Is all well in Rohan?” Legolas inquired. 

“Very well,” Éomer answered, “but also very busy. Preparations are already underway for the Rhovanion in three months time.”

The Elf’s eyes lit up. “Of course!” he exclaimed. “I remember the last competition clearly. It is held every five years, is it not?” 

“Yes,” Éomer confirmed. “The Rhovanion is the most renown horse race in all of Middle-earth; the ultimate test of skill, stamina and courage for man and beast. It is the highest honor among the Rohirrim to be crowned the champion of this race.” 

“Do you already have a rider and a mount to represent your house?” 

“That decision will be made at a later date,” Éomer admitted. “It is difficult to find the perfect match of horse and rider.” 

“Indeed,” Legolas agreed thoughtfully. 

The topic of conversation shifted and Éomer found himself easily drawn into the Elf’s company. Despite their decade-long friendship, the Horse Lord had never come to know the Elven Prince as well as he would have liked. Legolas had always been warm yet distant, friendly but detached. This was the first time, Éomer realized with some surprise, that they had truly sat down together for an extended period of time and discussed more than trivial superficialities. They spoke about their families, their experiences, the responsibilities placed upon them at an early age, the expectations of their elders, the burden of leadership and the need to produce an heir – a newly acquired obligation on behalf of the Elf that Legolas, before his impending coronation, had apparently never given any thought to before. 

Much time had passed and several bottles of wine had been consumed before they reached this particular subject. Guests flitted by to bid their host a good night and best wishes for the coronation the following morn. Éomer thought that he ought to perhaps feel a bit guilty for monopolizing Legolas’s time in this way, but the Elf did not seem to mind and the Horse Lord had consumed far too much wine to truly care. 

“Lothíriel,” Legolas said unexpectedly when they were alone again, a cheeky glimmer in his eye as he refilled the Man’s goblet. 

“Yes?” Éomer replied, feigning ignorance. 

“She is attending the celebration with Imrahil,” the Elf continued, watching the Man’s reaction carefully. “Will you begin your formal courtship here?” 

Éomer choked on his wine, a rather unkingly gesture. “I thought your race was subtle,” he commented. 

“I thought your race was blunt,” Legolas answered with an amused smile. 

The Horse Lord met the Elf’s smile with a wry grin, taking another sip of his wine. “How did you know about Lothíriel?” 

“The correct question is, ‘ _Who_ does not know about Lothíriel?’” Legolas mused. “It is a poorly kept secret.” 

For some reason, this remark gave Éomer pause. He hesitated and the Elf noticed. 

“My apologies, Éomer,” Legolas said gently. “I did not mean to offend you. It is none of my concern.” 

“No,” Éomer quickly replied. “You have not offended me. I was merely surprised. It is a poorly kept secret,” he agreed, but the indecision remained in his voice. 

How could he explain to the Elf that what he felt for Lothíriel was affection? Affection, he hoped, that when carefully nurtured would turn into love. Lothíriel was the choice of his advisors and he could find no fault in her save this niggling feeling that he wanted more, that there was something missing in his life before he settled down. Yet even he could not put his finger on it. He looked up to see the Elf scrutinizing him for the second time that night, the depths of those blue eyes revealing that perhaps Legolas knew something about him that he himself did not yet know. The thought disturbed him and he looked away, his attention drawn to a nearby chaise longue of forest green velvet where Rúmil had settled with another blonde Elf. They were sitting extremely close together, Rúmil’s hand leisurely stroking the other Elf’s thigh. It struck Éomer as an erotic gesture, but he banished the thought as the effect of too much wine. Therefore, the Horse Lord was unprepared when Rúmil leaned over and captured the other Elf’s lips in a kiss. Éomer expected the Elf to push the March Warden away, but instead he returned the kiss fervently, wrapping ivory fingers in the Lórien Elf’s hair to draw him closer. Éomer could not help but watch as the kiss deepened. Two golden Elves, long-limbed and graceful. He was mesmerized by the sight of them. Passion. Lust. Desire. He wanted to share in that but a part of him held back. His moral center warned him that something was amiss. 

Curiously, the Horse Lord’s companion followed the direction of the Man’s gaze. Legolas smiled to himself when his eyes rested on the two Elves, oblivious to their surroundings as hands continued to explore each other’s bodies. Rúmil had been chasing Lossendir for the better part of a week, a long time by the Lórien Elf’s standards, but Legolas had never doubted Rúmil’s success in the end. He turned back to face the Man, who was drinking deeply from his goblet. 

“Do they shock you?” he asked. 

“No,” Éomer answered a little too quickly. “We are not as prudish as you may think,” he added. “It’s just that . . .” he trailed off, clearly embarrassed about what he almost said next. 

“They are both male?” Legolas questioned. 

The Man coughed. “A warrior’s comfort is not uncommon in the field,” he explained, “but aside from that . . .” 

“It is generally not accepted.” Legolas finished his sentence again. 

For some inexplicable reason, the Elf’s attitude was beginning to irk the Man. Was Legolas mocking him? 

“These sort of relationships are known about,” he said defensively. “They are merely treated with more . . .” Éomer desperately tried to think of the right word before Legolas could say anything. 

“Discretion?” 

The Elf arched a challenging eyebrow and the Man was at a loss for words. When had this tension arisen between them? 

The charged atmosphere was broken by the appearance of an old friend. 

“It has been terribly inconsiderate of you, Lord of the Riddermark,” the Guardian of the Golden Wood chastised, “for monopolizing our host’s time in this way. I wonder,” he continued with a pointed look in the Prince’s direction, “what could have held our host in such thrall?” 

“Haldir of Lórien,” Legolas said demurely. “Have you come to bid me a good night?” 

“Alas,” the golden Elf replied theatrically. “It is time I retired.” 

“By yourself?” 

The March Warden ignored the innuendo and said instead, “The hour is late. Should you not also be retiring soon?” 

Legolas glanced at Éomer who was watching their exchange intently. The Man seemed to be seeing new dimensions to Legolas’s relationships this night and the Elf wished to test the waters of the Horse Lord’s open-mindedness. 

“There is something I want to do before I retire,” the Prince replied enigmatically. “Will I see you later?” 

“You know where to find me,” Haldir whispered, placing a not quite so chaste kiss on the Prince’s lips. Straightening up, he turned to the King of Rohan and said, “A good night to you, Lord Éomer.” 

“There is no need for such formality,” the Man said. “A good night to you as well, Haldir.” 

The Guardian nodded and casting his friend one last mysterious look, he left the room, passing by his brother as he did so. Rúmil and Lossendir left a few moments later, finally deeming it time to continue their activities elsewhere. 

“Éomer,” Legolas said, leaning across the small table and placing his hand over the Man’s. “There is something I wish to show you, if you are not too tired.” 

tbc…


	2. Awakening

Éomer was absurdly alert given the time and the amount of wine he had drunk. He knew he would feel the effects of this late night in a few hours when he would have to sit through Legolas’s coronation, but he pushed those thoughts to the back of his mind, unwilling to let the night come to an end. He inhaled the fresh air as he walked by the Elf’s side. They had left the palace grounds but instead of making their way into the heart of the city, the Prince had turned towards the dark woods, still carefully shielded by the surrounding slope of the mountainside. 

“You will make a good king,” the Horse Lord suddenly said aloud. 

“Oh?” the Elf’s tone was amused. “What makes you say that?” 

“I have seen your leadership skills both in times of battle and in times of peace,” the Man replied. 

“To be a good king requires more than leadership skills,” Legolas said quietly to himself. Then he raised his voice and said, “I was never groomed to assume the throne. That was Suil’s responsibility. My older brother,” he explained and Éomer nodded. “Quite frankly,” the Elf continued, “I never expected Thranduil to sail West. I thought that this earth was too close to his heart. He does have a heart,” Legolas added and Éomer couldn’t help but smile, thinking of all the terrifying stories he had heard about the Woodland King. 

“Thranduil used to admonish me for what he saw as my weakness: ‘You are too easily attached to mortal things,’” the Prince said, mimicking his father’s stentorian voice. “‘They will be your undoing.’” 

“Are they?” 

“No,” the Elf replied evenly. 

“Why then, did you not go with your family when they sailed?” 

“It is not yet my time,” Legolas replied simply before lapsing into silence. 

“You will make a good king,” Éomer repeated after a while. 

The Elf grinned and abruptly stopped walking. They had reached the edge of a small clearing and the Horse Lord looked around expectantly. What on earth did Legolas want to show him out here?

The Prince stood perfectly still, mirroring the sudden disappearance of the cool breeze. He appeared to be listening to something, but the Man could only hear the suffocating sound of silence. Then Legolas let out a low whistle unlike anything Éomer had heard before. Its pitch was clear and even, but it bore no semblance to a melody or the trill of a bird. It wove around them an invisible spell before carrying out into the night and the Horse Lord was captivated by the sound. 

The Man peered into the darkness but nothing moved. The whistle faded until the two friends were left standing at the edge of the clearing in silence and still nothing happened. Éomer glanced to his right but Legolas remained motionless. Waiting. 

An unmistakable sound drew the Man’s attention back to the darkened woods. The pounding of hooves, distant at first, but steadily growing louder as the animal approached. He could see the barest outline of a horse’s shadow moving through the woods until it emerged from a thicket of trees and made its way towards them, its canter slowing to a trot until it stood in front of the Elf. 

Legolas raised a hand in greeting, speaking soft Elvish words to reassure the beast while Éomer studied the animal with a mixture of awe and apprehension. It was a stallion, he had no doubt of that. A magnificent creature. It held its head high and proud, as though he too were of royal blood and his black eyes studied the Man warily. 

“I assure you, Éomer,” Legolas said softly, “that he is no beast of Mordor though his coat may lead you to think otherwise.” 

“A black stallion,” the Man murmured softly, noting how the moonlight gleamed off the flawless jet-black coat. “Are they rare among Elven steeds?” 

“They are very rare,” the Elf answered, moving to stroke the animal’s long curved neck. “This is Echuir, one of my family’s most prized possessions. You must be careful. He is not accustomed to strangers.” 

Éomer had not moved. Judging by the horse’s guarded stance, he did not think that his presence was entirely welcome. Legolas continued to talk to the animal in his native tongue, stroking its neck and periodically massaging the tense crest muscles in a comforting gesture. The Horse Lord could see the animal visibly relaxing under the Elf’s ministrations until he stood beside the Prince and playfully rubbed his head against the Elf. Then the animal turned his attention to the Man and Éomer got the distinct impression that he was being scrutinized, not unlike the manner by which Legolas had watched him earlier that eve. The Man hid a smile. Apparently, Elven horses were very much like their Elven masters. 

Tentatively, Éomer held out his hand, palm facing upwards. Echuir snorted. The King of Rohan was tempted to think of it as a snort of disdain and he had to suppress another smile. Legolas gave a small word of encouragement and the stallion gingerly smelled the Man’s hand. The horse did not find anything offensive and after a moment, he began to nibble the Man’s palm as though looking for a treat. Éomer took this as a sign that he would be allowed to touch the animal and he gently rubbed the stallion’s muzzle, moving upwards to brush the forelock from Echuir’s face and revealing a perfectly formed white diamond on the animal’s forehead. 

The Horse Lord let out a breath that he did not realize he had been holding and said, “He is no horse of Mordor.” 

Echuir snorted again at the unpleasant name. 

“Does he understand what I say?” Éomer asked. 

“Well enough,” the Elf smiled. 

“What does ‘Echuir’ mean?” the Man asked curiously, now running his hand down the stallion’s strong neck, following the path that Legolas had made before. Once the Elf was certain that Echuir had accepted Éomer’s presence, he stepped away to allow the Man more freedom to better examine the animal. The stallion turned his head as the Horse Lord reached his shoulder, also following the Man’s actions inquisitively. 

“‘Echuir’ is the beginning of spring,” Legolas explained, pausing before he continued, “but it may also mean ‘awakening’.” 

Éomer paused at the word, his back to the Prince. His hand now rested on the horse’s back and the stallion grew restless under his touch. There was no mistaking the tension that had arisen from that single word. Even Echuir could feel it coursing from the Man’s fingertips. The Horse Lord slowly turned to his right, instinctively knowing that the Elf now stood beside him. 

“What strange magic is this?” he whispered. “Do you put it in the wine or is it merely in the air we breathe?” 

The Elf took a step closer, running his right hand along the stallion’s back until it rested mere centimeters from the Man’s hand. Legolas could almost brush Éomer’s fingertips with his own, but he was careful not to touch the Man. Not yet. 

“Have you been caught in its spell?” the Prince whispered in return. 

Éomer wanted to shake his head but his body refused to move, and he wondered if he was indeed caught in some Elvish spell. 

“There is something happening,” he said hesitantly, “and I know not whether this forces acts upon me or comes from my own will.” 

Legolas said nothing but studied the Horse Lord intently, his expression once again unreadable. Éomer looked down, unable to bear the weight of the Elf’s gaze. 

“I know why you will be a good ruler,” Éomer suddenly burst out, his head light as though the effects of the wine had come upon him in a rush. 

Still Legolas said nothing. 

The King of Rohan wanted to laugh to ease the tension, but his throat was too dry. His voice sounded raspy to his ears when he spoke. 

“It is because you have the respect and loyalty of your people,” he rambled. “They will follow you out of love and not– ” 

“Fear?” 

The word hung heavy in the air and Éomer dared to look up. 

“I was not going to say that,” he said evenly, trying to sound certain although he was far from it. 

“You would have been right,” Legolas answered, moving imperceptibly closer, his long ivory fingers almost touching the Man’s. They were standing so close together now that Éomer could inhale the Elf’s scent. Legolas smelled like the forest, fresh and cool, with a touch of pine. It was a refreshing change from the smell of the earth, the dust and the plains of Rohan. 

“Fear and love are often two sides of the same coin,” the Elf said, his voice low and enticing. “A lesson that my father taught me well.” 

“You are not your father.” 

The comment made the Prince smile and he reached out with his other hand to run his fingers through the Man’s hair. Éomer did not flinch. 

“No,” Legolas agreed. “I am not my father.” He paused, fingers smoothing the tangles in the blond mane. “But I know what you fear, for I feel the same way.” 

It was the Man’s turn to remain silent. 

“Imprisonment.” 

Legolas tilted his head to the left and Éomer marked how the moonlight lit half the Elf’s face while the other half remained shrouded in darkness. 

“Cages surround us,” the Prince continued, his melodic voice caressing his words. “Cages that are thrust upon us and others that we build for ourselves.” 

The Elf’s hand had found its way to back of the Man’s neck and he rested it there, not applying any pressure but also not allowing Éomer to pull away. 

“Step outside your cage for but a moment,” Legolas whispered, leaning forward and brushing his lips in a featherlike touch against the Man’s cheek, “and I will show you something wondrous.” 

He pulled away slightly to gauge the Horse Lord’s reaction. Éomer was stiff and tense like an animal about to flee, but there was also something that held him rooted to the spot. Confusion. Anticipation. Desire. Legolas could see the torn emotions swimming in the Man’s eyes. The Prince used this moment to entwine his fingers in the Horse Lord’s hand and Éomer returned the gesture, gripping the Elf’s fingers painfully as though he sought some form of reassurance. Echuir shifted beneath their touch. 

Legolas leaned forward again and this time he brushed the Man’s lips with his own. The gesture could hardly be called a kiss and yet Éomer sighed. Encouraged, the Prince tried again, pressing his lips more firmly against the Man’s. Lingering. 

Éomer did not respond, but he could feel the Elf’s lips form a smile against his own. _He must think me some inexperienced maid._ The thought appalled the King and he instinctively returned the pressure of the kiss. When the Elf titled his head, it became the most natural thing in the world to open his mouth and deepen the kiss. Legolas accepted the invitation, relishing the feel of Éomer’s tongue sliding against his own. The Rohan King tasted of wind and earth. 

_It is not so very different from being with a woman_ , Éomer thought, enjoying the slow tempo of their kiss, unaware that his other hand had wrapped itself around the Elf’s back and pressed their bodies close together. 

But it was very different. Legolas was not a submissive partner, as Éomer had grown accustomed to. The Prince had instigated the kiss, for no amount of Elvish magic could have prompted the Man to do so. And while Legolas did not dominate the kiss, he was clearly Éomer’s equal and this thought sent a shiver of delight through the Horse Lord. An equal. Was that what was missing from his life? 

Éomer would think about it later as he lay in bed waiting for the last few hours before sunrise. He was too alert to sleep and the events of the night filled his mind. His thoughts inevitably returned to Legolas and that wondrous kiss they had shared. He could still taste the Elf as he absently traced his lips with the tips of his fingers. He remembered how Legolas had held his hand in a comforting and encouraging gesture upon Echuir’s back, gradually lifting it to place it on the Elf’s shoulder. His thoughts flashed to Aragorn and a similar moment earlier that eve. He remembered exploring the Elf’s back, the texture of Legolas’ velvet tunic and the lean muscles he could feel beneath. He remembered Legolas wrapping an arm around his waist, molding their bodies together, while the hand that had held his neck moved lower, passing over one shoulder blade and then other, as though seeking some secret pressure point. The Elf found it near his lower back, causing Éomer to moan into their kiss, temporarily breaking it. Legolas smiled in satisfaction before seizing the Man’s lips again. His inhibitions stripped away, Éomer returned the kiss passionately. 

All the while Echuir watched them, guarded them, until finally the kiss ended and the stallion bolted into the night. 

tbc…


	3. An Elvish Conspiracy

The following morning the King of Rohan rose at his customary hour despite not having slept a wink. He went through his morning routine: bathing, changing and having a light breakfast with the other guests before the coronation scheduled for later that morn. Éomer was the same, but he felt strangely different. He was present, but living in a waking dream that had not yet ended. Or had it only begun? He could not tell.

The Horse Lord found amusement in the smallest of things and all who encountered him remarked on his good humor. He longed to scream to all present that he felt alive and that foolish thought ultimately made him smile. He was still smiling when he met a more sober Steward of Gondor in the hallway. Poor Faramir was indeed feeling the effects of his late-night revelry. 

“How fare you this morning?” Éomer asked, trying to appear sympathetic but failing miserably. 

“The sun is too bright, the birds sing too loudly and there are too many people rushing about,” Faramir answered grumpily. 

“The coronation is in a little over an hour,” Éomer explained. 

“Thank goodness,” Faramir breathed. “Perhaps I can crawl into bed afterwards and get some sleep.” 

“And miss the feast that is to follow? I’m sure Legolas will appreciate that,” Éomer joked. 

The Steward of Gondor regarded the King of Rohan suspiciously. “How is it that you fare so well this morning?” he asked curiously. “Your night ended as late as mine and I’ll wager that you drank just as much wine. Do not think that I did not notice the number of bottles stacked at your table by the time you left. Though Gimli would be loath to admit it, I understand that Legolas can drink him under the table.” 

Éomer shrugged. “Elven wine appears to agree with me,” he commented. 

Faramir looked doubtful but remained silent. 

“Did you know,” Éomer continued hurriedly, “that Elves sleep with their eyes open? Perhaps you can discover the secret of that art and apply it during the coronation.” 

Faramir looked at his dear friend oddly. “I believe I was mistaken,” he said at last. “You undoubtedly drank more wine than I did last night and it has clearly affected your mind.” 

The remark made Éomer laugh heartily and he clapped the other Man on the back. “No more so than usual,” he grinned. 

Faramir winced as the laugh rung too loudly in his ears. He was feeling much too sensitive this morning. “Very well, Éomer,” he agreed. “Perhaps later you shall tell me the secret to overcoming Elven wine.” 

“The trick,” Éomer whispered enigmatically, “is not to let the dream end.” 

With these words the Horse Lord went on his way, leaving an increasingly puzzled Steward behind him. Éomer came across other friends and acquaintances that morning such as his sister, who happened to be looking for her husband. 

“I would check your bedchambers again,” he suggested helpfully. “Faramir mentioned something about wanting to sleep.” 

“It’s the wine,” Éowyn sighed. “Legolas always serves the most potent vintage for friends. Gimli suspects that he puts a secret ingredient in it that Elves are immune to but affects other races. It’s the only explanation he can give for being beaten by the Prince at a drinking competition.” She paused as she noticed her brother’s extremely happy disposition. “It’s good to know that you were more responsible with your drinking last night,” she commented. 

“Responsible,” Éomer echoed. He felt giddy but amazingly managed to rein in another laugh. 

Éowyn fixed him with a hard stare before finally nodding. She could always sense when there was something afoot with her brother. “Well,” she said, “try not to get into too much trouble before the coronation.” Then she turned in the direction of her bedchambers once again. 

Trouble did not find the King of Rohan the rest of the morning, but the Prince of Dol Amroth certainly did. They conversed amiably and it was agreed that Éomer would make his first formal appearance with Lothíriel during the coronation. It seemed the perfect occasion to begin their courtship and the Horse Lord had to agree, even though his thoughts did not dwell on Lothíriel. On the contrary, an unfamiliar air of anticipation surrounded the possibility of seeing Legolas again. The Elf had been occupied all morning, but that was to be expected. 

The Lórien Elves were not as occupied and Éomer passed by some of their group in the palace courtyard. The Man automatically gave Haldir a friendly wave when the Guardian caught his eye. If Haldir was surprised by the unusually open gesture, for he was not particularly close to the Horse Lord, he did not show it. Instead he raised his hand in a more sedate greeting, but his gray eyes continued to follow the Man until he was out of sight, all the while wondering what sort of devious plan his long-time lover had in store.

~*~*~*~

The coronation was a magnificent affair as all those in attendance had expected it to be. The ceremony itself was relatively short and took place in the grandest hall of the Greenwood palace, now decked in the greens and golds of the Silvan Elves. Upon his head the new King of Eryn Lasgalen wore a crown of white and gold woodland flowers woven into a finely crafted mirthril circlet; in his right hand, he held a staff of oak with the likeness of a delicate bird’s head carved at the tip.

Each guest was presented before the newly crowned King, all of them bearing gifts and praises from their lands. Legolas showed the utmost patience by attending them personally and sharing a few words. While this considerably drew out the presentation process, none in the great hall minded for it instantly showed the difference between father and son. Where Thranduil had been rigid and formal, following the rules of etiquette to the letter; Legolas was open and approachable, immediately setting those around him at ease. 

When Éomer’s name was called, he did not notice how the Herald included Lothíriel’s name in the announcement and the quiet murmur that went through the audience present, so intent was he to finally greet the new King. Legolas stood at the top of a long dais, his hands clasped before him, wearing the ceremonial robes of deep forest green embroidered with gold. Éomer held Lothíriel’s hand as they mounted the few short steps that lead to the dais. The Princess curtseyed before the Elven King, while the Man deferentially bowed his head. 

“My friends,” Legolas greeted them. “It is good to see the both of you _together_ ,” he added with a twinkle in his eye. 

A blush colored the Princess’s cheeks at the approving remark and her smile was radiant. She had long fancied the Elf, ever since Legolas had first visited Dol Amroth but Lothíriel was a practical young woman. She knew there was no future for her with Legolas beyond her own childish dreams. On the contrary, she counted herself fortunate to be courted by a man as noble and brave as the King of Rohan, although the prospect of leaving her home by the sea in exchange for the endless plains of the Riddermark saddened her heart. Marriage would open new doors and give her more responsibilities, but they would also clip the wings of her once carefree youth. 

Éomer stood and watched as Legolas and Lothíriel exchanged short pleasantries. Etiquette demanded that he offer his best wishes, but the King of Rohan was content to nod in agreement with whatever was being said. The Horse Lord was more interested in studying his companions’ profiles, and what a marked contrast they presented. Lothíriel was slender and comely; her raven tresses falling in soft waves against her lavender gown. When she turned to look at him, he noticed that the hue of her dress highlighted the violet flecks in her gray eyes, which were framed by long dark lashes. She was beautiful. She would be his future wife. 

Legolas was no less beautiful, but his beauty was of an entirely different nature and Éomer wondered why he had never paid particular attention to the Elf before. Perhaps it was because he considered Elves to be the fairer race, ageless and eternal. They seemed otherworldly to him and he had never desired one before. It felt almost sacrilegious to think, much less act on any impure thoughts. Such generalizations were foolish. He knew that now. Legolas was as real as he. The same blood flowed through their veins, the same ambitions and the same desire. Legolas represented possibility, the unknown, and it was somewhat frightening. 

Now the Elven King stood before the King of Rohan, the Elf’s flowing blonde mane woven with the intricate knots of royalty. The plaits looked constricting in their precision. Did Legolas feel the weight of their responsibility? Éomer’s eyes focused on the carved bird’s head at the tip of the oak staff. He had never seen such likeness carved into wood before. But this bird would never fly nor greet anyone with song. It remained in its own cage though no bars surrounded it. With this realization the King of Rohan’s vision cleared. Taking Lothíriel’s hand to descend the steps of the dais, he could hear the snap of a lock in his mind and he knew that the dream had ended.

~*~*~*~

Legolas could not help but breathe a sigh of relief when the presentations were done. He had stolen away onto a little balcony for some fresh air and a moment of peace. The day was glorious – perfect for a ride in the woods or a refreshing swim – but there were still many obligations to attend to. The guests now milled about the great hall as the final preparations for the midday feast were being made. The Elven King cringed when he thought of the formal banquet that he would have to endure later that evening.

This is what my days will be like, Legolas reflected, filled with guests and appointments, treaties and trade negotiations. He had already been approached by a trade councilor from the Dale who wished to re-negotiate the terms of the trade agreement that was scheduled for renewal in a few months time. Legolas had politely but firmly informed him that a meeting would be arranged within the next few days so that the new proposals could be thoroughly examined, indicating to the councilor that while the son may be more approachable than the father, he was no less a hard bargainer. 

“I do not recall your coronation being this tedious,” the Elven King suddenly said aloud. 

“It is different when you are the one being crowned,” came the reply from a figure that stepped out from behind the curtains shielding the balcony from the rest of the hall. 

“So it is,” the Elf agreed, turning around to greet his old friend. 

“You will no longer be able to avoid your courtly duties,” Aragorn commented, lighting leaning against the balcony’s curved stone arch. 

“I have not avoided my courtly duties since I was an Elfling,” Legolas replied. 

“Is that so?” The Man’s tone was amused as he smiled at the Elf. “Then what would you call our little meetings in the woods of your father’s realm?” he inquired. 

Legolas looked him squarely in the eye as he said, “Guard duty.” 

Aragorn laughed. He always enjoyed the quick repartee of the Elf. Legolas was as cunning and skillful of mind as he was deft and precise with his bow. 

“You will make a good king,” he said in the peaceful silence that followed. 

The remark seemed to startle the Elf although he hid it well. Only the slight widening of his irises gave him away. 

“Someone has told you that before?” 

“As a matter of fact, yes,” Legolas admitted thoughtfully, but did not say whom. Instead he motioned to his companion that they should return to the main hall. “I expect we are being missed,” he explained, “and the feast is no doubt prepared.” 

As the two friends went back inside, the remark remained in Aragorn’s thoughts and the King of Gondor was left wondering what little secret his old friend was keeping from him.

~*~*~*~

The King of Rohan was subdued during the midday feast as though the effects of some drug he had taken had worn off. Faramir jokingly commented that they had exchanged places. The Steward was in high spirits after drinking some Elven potion to cure his hangover that had been given to him by his wife, who in turn had received it from the Lady Arwen.

“It’s an Elvish conspiracy!” Gimli declared upon hearing about Faramir’s encounter with Elven wine and medicine. “It is no wonder that the fair folk are such crafty negotiators. They invite their prey to a feast, fill their cups, sign a deal and then cure them in the morning!” 

Most of the guests laughed at the jest, but not all the Elves at the High Table were amused. 

“You must pardon my friend,” Legolas announced to ease the slight tension at the table. “Gimli son of Glóin is in a bit of a predicament. You see,” the Elven King explained, “he cannot admit to himself that he was beaten by an Elf at his own drinking game.” 

“Come to my realm, old friend,” the Lord of the Glittering Caves said with a sly wink, “and I shall show you a _real_ drinking game.” 

“I accept your kind offer,” Legolas replied graciously, “but first you must have more wine and then we can work out a trade agreement.” 

By bringing the Dwarf’s joke full circle the guests were able to laugh merrily without causing offence. Éomer could only manage a small smile. He did not find the joke particularly funny, especially after reflecting upon the events of the previous eve. Why had Gimli used the word ‘prey’? Had Éomer been, in his own way, a participant in a different kind of Elvish conspiracy? His brow furrowed at the thought of his uninhibited actions, and the Man did not realize that a pair of clear blue eyes watched him at the table.

~*~*~*~

After the meal Éomer excused himself from Lothíriel’s company, claiming that he had some business to attend to. This could not have been further from the truth, but it would not do to tell his future wife that he would rather go for a ride than spend some time with her. Besides, the Man reasoned, he would be spending a great deal of time with her in the weeks to come. Just as the Horse Lord rounded the corner that would lead to his chambers, he caught sight of another person he was hoping not to see. Legolas was giving instructions to a young page and when he was done, the page bowed respectfully before scampering off. The Horse Lord slowed his steps, determined to be polite but not to get drawn into another one of the Elf’s ploys.

“Escaping already?” Legolas asked in a jesting manner. 

“It has been an eventful day,” Éomer answered, “for you, most of all. I feel like I could do with a rest before tonight’s banquet.” 

The Elf appraised the Man. 

“How unusual,” he said at last. “I would have thought that you would prefer to go for a ride. I am inclined to do so myself. It is a wonderful day.” 

“A ride?” the Man repeated disbelievingly. “On the day of your coronation? Do you not think you will be missed?” 

Legolas stepped forward conspiratorially, his smile infectious. “My alibi is being taken care of as we speak,” he explained, motioning in the direction of the page that had disappeared down the hallway. “What say you, Éomer? Will you join me for a ride? Or can the Lord of the Mearas not compete with an Elven stallion?” 

The bold challenge lit a fire in the Horse Lord’s eyes. A voice warned him that any kind of contest would result in an ill outcome, but his passion for riding and his love of horses enflamed him. What possible harm could come from a little race? 

tbc…


	4. An Unexpected Proposition

An hour and a half later, two stallions were thundering down the road away from the Elven palace. It had been no mean feat escaping the city, for an ‘escape’ was the only way Éomer could characterize their covert departure. After agreeing to the Elf’s challenge, they had returned to their separate quarters to change into more appropriate attire. Legolas had instructed Éomer to wear his most inconspicuous riding clothes and to meet him behind the royal stables. There the Elven King had given him a forest green cloak bearing the insignia of the special royal envoy. They would not be stopped, Legolas had explained, for a page had already informed the guards at the gate that an important envoy would be dispatched that very afternoon, and on no account should that envoy be delayed. 

The Horse Lord had shaken his head in amusement as he slipped on his green cloak. He had to give the Elf credit. Legolas had planned everything in advance, making the Man wonder if he had also set his sights on a particular riding partner. The King of Rohan had brushed this thought aside. Things were very different in the light of day without any Elven wine to distort his sensibilities. He would keep his head about him. 

The two Kings had ventured into the woods behind the stables and called for their mounts. Déor, the Chief of the Mearas, had been prepared an extra spacious stall in the royal stables, but like his Elven counterpart, preferred the freedom of the outdoors and merely came whenever his master called. Déor would take a bridle and saddle if need be, but Éomer often chose to ride him bareback without bit or bridle as Legolas had noticed in the past. It made the Elven King smile to know that the Horse Lord had such an Elvish style of riding without his knowledge. 

The two had stallions appeared at almost the same time from opposite directions. Déor’s rich chestnut coat was highlighted by the bright afternoon sunshine. He was the greatest of all the horses of the Rohirrim and he carried himself as befitted the mount of a King. It was clear that the two stallions had not encountered each other before and their competitive nature charged the air. Echuir had pawed the ground restlessly and Legolas whispered a few words to him before mounting the steed in one smooth motion, while Déor eyed the black stallion suspiciously. He did not like the look of him. This horse did not give him the same respect that the other Mearas did. A different breed. He had snorted to make his dislike known. Éomer mounted his horse, taking note of Déor’s attitude towards the Elven stallion. It appeared that this little race would be even more competitive than he had anticipated. 

Legolas then led the way into the complex tunnel structure from an entrance that Éomer had not seen before. Déor did not like following the Elven stallion and Éomer had to continually keep him in check as Legolas navigated the numerous torch-lit passageways. They traveled at a brisk trot until the Horse Lord recognized the cavernous mouth that would take them outside the Elven city. He pulled his cloak tighter around him as they drew nearer to the magical gates. As instructed, the guards on duty did not stop them, standing aside to let the two hooded riders pass. 

Once across the wide bridge, the horses had broken into a canter, eager to be able to stretch their legs at last. The canter quickly turned into a gallop along the smooth woodland road and the two stallions were well matched. The Horse Lord cast a furtive glance to his right. The wind had whipped Legolas’s hood from his face and the Man could easily see the Elf’s profile. His companion’s blonde mane blew freely behind him, a stark contrast to the precision of his royal braids during the coronation. This was the Legolas he knew, a kindred free spirit. Just as Déor was beginning to pull away, showing his superior speed and stamina, Legolas abruptly veered off the road and into the woods. Éomer cursed under his breath and called a command to Déor to follow. The Chief of the Mearas was also not amused by the little trick and strove forward to draw alongside the black stallion. 

On the woodland terrain, the Elven steed showed his true prowess. Echuir was nimble and agile. While Déor could outrun him on a straight flat track, the Elven stallion weaved effortlessly in and out of the trees, not once slowing his stride. When they came across a large fallen oak tree, Echuir flew over it as though it were only two feet high instead of six. The Horse Lord was impressed and he urged his mount to follow suit though Déor did not care for jumping. On this occasion, Déor was more than willing to comply. He was not about to be bested by an arrogant Elven mount. 

They rode like this for quite a while. Éomer lost track of time, so exhilarated was he by the wind, the race, the feeling of complete freedom that he derived from these rides and the joy of finally being able to share this passion with someone else. The horses could have run for hours but the afternoon light was starting to wane and the King of Rohan regretfully knew that they would have to return to the palace soon. Yet Legolas rode on, headed for some destination unknown to the Man. 

“Where are we going?” Éomer called out at last, curiosity getting the best of him. 

“We are almost there!” Legolas called back. 

A typical Elvish answer, the Man reflected, implying that it was no answer at all. 

It was not long before Legolas slowed his pace, bringing Echuir into a trot and Éomer followed suit. They were approaching a break in the trees and as they passed through it, the Horse Lord saw a wide lake stretched before them. Éomer smiled appreciatively. It was an ideal place to rest and water the horses before returning to the city. He looked to his right and saw that Legolas had already dismounted. The Elf said a few words to Echuir who promptly ran off, following the trail around the edge of the lake. Then, to the Man’s great surprise, the Elf began to undress. 

“What are you doing?” Éomer asked, unable to hide his alarm. 

Legolas turned to face him, wearing only his black leggings. 

“You did not think that I would return to the palace without bathing?” the Elf replied, as though the mere suggestion offended him. Then he proceeded to peel off his remaining item of clothing. 

“It appears Gimli is right,” the Horse Lord stammered, attempting to conceal his flustered state, his eyes nevertheless riveted by the sight before him. 

“About what?” Legolas inquired, completely unselfconscious about his nudity. 

“You are addicted to bathing.” 

Éomer’s breath caught in his throat as his eyes momentarily locked with the Elf’s. Then Legolas smiled and let out one of those crystal laughs that the Man had heard so often the night before. Turning around and heading towards the lake, the Elf called over his shoulder, “That is one of the few things Gimli is right about!” 

The Horse Lord watched as the Elf waded into the water. He had never been attracted to another male before, but there was no denying what he felt for Legolas at that moment. _And why not?_ the Man asked himself. Surely all who look upon him must desire him in some way, whether they are aware of it or not. Legolas was beautiful. A masculine beauty, the Horse Lord reminded himself. Éomer had never looked closely upon the male form before, preferring the tapering of a woman’s waist and full hips, but now it was presented to him in its purest form. The Elf was standing almost waist deep in water, his back to the Man and Éomer watched as Legolas bathed. Each motion appeared sensual, each handful of water ran down the Elf’s flawless skin. Éomer marked the broad back, the flexing of a shoulder blade, the strong arms. The scene before him made his chest tighten. 

Déor shifted restlessly, reminding the Man that he was yet to dismount. The Chief of the Mearas was eager to be off, somewhat annoyed that the Elven stallion was already frolicking on the other side of the lake. He also deserved a break and he made his dissatisfaction known by pawing the ground. 

“Very well,” his master muttered as he dismounted. “Be good,” the Man ordered, fixing his mount with a hard stare. The stallion stared back, finally nodding his head in a non-committal way, as though to say he would try but could not promise anything. 

Éomer shook his head as Déor tore off in the direction that Echuir had headed. Two high-strung, competitive stallions. The lake would not be big enough for the both of them. As his attention was drawn back to the bathing Elf, he realized that the lake was probably not big enough for the two of them either. The Horse Lord felt somewhat foolish standing by the side of the lake while his companion bathed. Looking about for somewhere to sit, his eyes settled upon a low flat rock. That would do, he decided, walking towards it, but the voice of the Elven King stopped him. 

“Will you not join me?” 

Éomer froze, his mind whirling with the implications of the question. He turned around slowly to face the Elf. 

“We have ridden in a great sweeping arc,” Legolas explained, “and are only fifteen minutes away from the city. It would not do to be late for my own banquet,” he added with an impish smile. “I thought you might like to bathe and relax those tense muscles. It will save you the trouble of bathing later on.” 

The Elven King paused and looked at the Horse Lord expectantly, blue eyes dancing with his challenge. Éomer’s legs had turned into lead and he was rooted to the spot. He had bathed with other men before. But those times had been instances of necessity or for the sake of efficiency, a far cry from his current situation. It made sense to bathe now, he tried to rationalize to himself. _I told you!_ another part of him chastised. Any race with this fey creature would end in an ill outcome. An ill outcome is a matter of perspective, the rational voice said. What is so terrible about a bath? 

Once the decision had been made to bathe, the Horse Lord was faced with another problem – the matter of undressing. While Legolas had been perfectly comfortable to strip in the Man’s company, Éomer did not share his feelings. You will come across as a prude, one part of him said. You are being modest, another side retorted. Favoring the course of modesty, the Horse Lord coughed slightly as he began to untie the laces of his tunic. 

Sensing that a minor victory had been won, Legolas turned around to give the Man some privacy. He could hear a small sigh of relief as Éomer continued to undress and he smiled at the thought of the Man’s shyness. Shy was a word he had never associated with the King of Rohan before. A splash of water told him that the Horse Lord had joined him in the lake. He turned around to see Éomer a few feet away, splashing his face with water and rubbing his arms clean. Éomer was trying to bathe as quickly as possible. Legolas almost laughed. The Man was so charming when he was flustered. Well, the Elven King thought, I’ll just have to put him at ease. 

Silently, the Elf moved behind the Man who was too preoccupied to notice. He reached out and placed his hand on the Man’s shoulder. Startled, Éomer instinctively tried to turn around but Legolas held him still, gently rubbing the Man’s tense shoulder muscles. 

“Let me wash your back,” the Elf offered, his tone leaving no room for argument. 

Éomer tried to calm his rising panic by taking a few deep breaths. He was acutely aware of their nakedness and their proximity to one another. He concentrated on the feel of Legolas’s hands on his shoulders. They were working their particular magic, and despite himself, the Horse Lord began to relax, allowing the Elf to continue his ministrations, silencing the voice that told him events would surely degenerate from here. Satisfied that the Man was more comfortable with his situation, Legolas turned his attention to the Horse Lord’s upper back, smiling to himself as he rubbed the firm muscles on the broad back. Éomer was a strong man. The Elf had no doubt that the King of Rohan would be a challenging lover. For his part, Éomer was attuned to every motion of the Elf’s hands, every tenderly kneaded muscle and he realized with some surprise, that this did not feel wrong. 

“I have been thinking about the Rhovanion,” Legolas suddenly said. 

“Oh?” Éomer answered. He had closed his eyes and was content to let Legolas work his magic. 

“I have heard that the Chief of the Mearas may not be ridden in the competition. Is this true?” 

“Yes,” Éomer replied. “It is commonly known that the Chief of the Mearas is the finest of all the horses of the Rohirrim. None can surpass Déor’s speed and stamina. It would not be a fair race if Déor were allowed to enter.” 

“Then,” Legolas continued, “aside from this exception, any mount may be entered?” 

“Any mount,” the Horse Lord repeated, only half-conscious of his words. 

“Tell me more about the race,” the Elf encouraged, his attentions moving ever lower down the Man’s back, unintentionally making it more difficult for Éomer to think. Now Legolas was doing some extraordinary work on his spine, applying varying amounts of pressure with his fingertips along the discs of his spinal cord. It had the effect of completely relaxing him and Éomer felt as though he were drifting into a dream-like state. 

“A dream,” the Man whispered. Being with Legolas was a beautiful Elvish dream. 

“Yes, Éomer?”

The Elf’s melodious voice snapped him back to reality and he turned his head slightly to look at the Elf, no longer embarrassed about their nudity. 

“You are very good with your hands,” he remarked. 

“I have had centuries of practice,” Legolas replied and then added mischievously, “and have perfected other skills.” 

The King of Rohan quickly looked away, but not before the Elf saw the faint blush creep up his cheeks. Éomer cleared his throat before speaking again. 

“The Rhovanion,” he said, returning to the subject at hand. “What else do you wish to know?” 

“Who may enter the competition?” 

The Horse Lord thought for a moment before saying, “I suppose anyone may enter the competition. Naturally, most of the competitors are from the Rohirrim. Each noble house is represented by a horse and rider. But other races and people from neighboring realms may enter. It is not uncommon for a Captain of Gondor to do so.” 

“Must a participant be of noble blood?” 

“No,” Éomer replied. “That law was abolished during the reign of King Folcwine when, after many hard winters, the Rohirrim were at last able to regain their strength. Now a common stable boy may enter, especially if he is requested to do so by his Lord. Conversely, an independent rider may enter bearing no title save for his name and his distant land.” 

“And women?” the Elf prodded. “May women enter the competition?” 

The Man could hear the playful lilt in the Elf’s voice and he gave his companion a sidelong glance. Legolas had now reached the region of his lower back and was drawing soothing circles with his thumbs on the slight indentations just above his buttocks, threatening to move lower but keeping his hands on the Man’s hips. Éomer found the action terribly arousing and he let out a short, nervous laugh. 

“There is no regulation preventing women from entering the Rhovanion,” he said, tension lacing his voice. “Éowyn would have my head if there was,” he continued, “but thus far, no woman has participated in the competition.” 

Legolas could hear the nervousness creep into Éomer’s voice and felt the slight stiffening of the Man’s body. He stopped his actions immediately, lightly resting his hands on the Man’s hips. This was followed by an imperceptible sigh, tinged with a hint of regret. The two companions stood in silence, listening to the sounds of the horses splashing and chasing one another at the far end of the lake. Slowly, Legolas wrapped his arms around the Man’s waist, pulling the Horse Lord against his body. 

Éomer did not resist. He let the Elf hold him, relaxing against the strong embrace. He felt secure, and without realizing it, he had covered the Elf’s hands with his own, holding the Elven King in place. With another sigh, he let his head rest on Legolas’ shoulder, exposing his neck to the Elf’s attention. Legolas placed a trail of light kisses on the Horse Lord’s neck, finally resting his chin on Éomer’s shoulder. He liked the feel of the Man’s body against his. They fit so well together. 

After a while, the King of Rohan broke the silence. 

“Why did you ask me those questions about the Rhovanion?” 

Legolas lifted his head. “Yes, the Rhovanion,” he repeated, as though he’d already forgotten the topic. He loosened his grip around the Man’s waist, much to the Horse Lord’s dismay. “I have a proposition for you.” 

“Oh?” 

“Since you cannot enter your own mount in the competition, I thought you would like to enter mine.” 

The proposition confused the Man for a moment, but when its meaning became clear, he spun around in surprise, forcing the Elf to take a step back. 

“Your mount?” he said in disbelief. “You mean Echuir?” 

“Yes.” 

Éomer shook his head. “No,” he answered. “In order to be entered into the competition, the stallion must belong to my family. I cannot imagine that you would wish to part with him in such a way and nor could I accept such a gift.” 

“Then think of it as a trade.” 

The Rohan King looked into the Elven King’s clear blue eyes, trying to decipher what sort of game the Elf was playing, but Legolas looked deadly serious. The Man remained silent. 

“Echuir is very valuable to me,” Legolas admitted, “but I also know that he desires a challenge and what better way to challenge him than to run him in the Rhovanion, the greatest horse race in all of Middle-Earth?” 

“Even if that were so,” Éomer said thoughtfully, “we would have to find a rider for him. I do not know much about Elven steeds, but I imagine that they would be just as finicky as the Mearas when it comes to choosing a rider. This would be doubly true for a stallion as magnificent as Echuir. Unless,” he paused, a sudden thought entering his mind, “you mean to enter him yourself as an independent rider. An independent rider representing Greenwood? That would be perfectly acceptable.” 

The Elf took a step closer and smiled. 

“That is a very tempting idea,” he began, “but I am quite serious about a trade.” 

Legolas paused for a moment, his eyes drawn to the sculpted chest before him and the patches of blonde hair covering it. He reached out and ran his fingers through it. Bodily hair had always fascinated him. 

“It has been brought to my attention that my people are in need of more horses; some fresh young blood,” the Elven King continued. “You are correct in saying that I would not give Echuir to anyone, but if he were to have another owner, only the King of Rohan would do.” 

Legolas paused again, taking a handful of water in his right hand and pouring it on the Man’s chest. He leisurely began to bathe Éomer’s chest and torso with one hand, his other hand once again lightly resting on the Man’s hip. He could feel Éomer’s heartbeat quicken and he took another step closer, bringing their bodies into contact. 

“In exchange for Echuir,” the Elf went on, “I request twenty-fives horses of my choice and five of your finest horses every year for the next five years.” 

Éomer’s mind flew into a frenzy. He was alarmed that his body was responding so readily to the Elf’s actions; the all too familiar feeling of heat pooling in his groin. It would not be long before Legolas would feel the evidence of his desire. He tried to steady his breathing and struggled to concentrate on the Elf’s proposal. Twenty-five horses plus five horses per year for the next five years. It was a high price. 

“Fifty of the Rohirrim’s best steeds in exchange for one Elven stallion,” the King of Rohan managed to say aloud. 

“Echuir is no ordinary Elven stallion,” Legolas countered, firmly sliding his arm around the Man’s waist, effectively locking their bodies together. Being around Éomer was intoxicating. Surely the Man could feel the charged atmosphere. “He is worth the price,” the Elf added, his right hand pressed in between their bodies, resting on the Man’s firm stomach. He was sorely tempted to travel lower. 

“Yes, he is,” Éomer agreed, trying to gain some control over his body’s responses. “But there is still the matter of a rider. If you are serious about wishing to enter him in the Rhovanion, we must find a rider for him, one that he will accept.” 

“That will be no easy task,” the Elf admitted, giving in to temptation and moving his hand lower. There was no part of the Man’s body that was not firm. He stopped again when he reached the coarse pubic hair, allowing his fingers to tangle in the rough curls. Éomer’s breath hitched. 

“But I am certain,” Legolas continued, eyes locked with the Horse Lord’s, “that with my help, we will be able to find a rider that Echuir will accept, and there is still time before the race for them to become accustomed to each other.” 

The Elf cocked his head to the right, wondering what the Man would feel like in his hand. Remarkable self-control, the Elf thought, waiting for a telltale hardness to press against him. Legolas also possessed remarkable self-control, his body and breathing betraying none of the burning desire that he felt. 

“What say you, Éomer?” he whispered, fingers moving deeper through the thick curls. “Do we have an agreement?” 

“You are a hard bargainer,” the Horse Lord murmured, unconsciously shifting in the Elf’s embrace and still, Legolas did not touch him. 

“Just like my father,” Legolas replied softly, bending down to place a kiss on the Man’s collarbone. 

Éomer sighed, inhaling the scent of the Elf’s hair as Legolas bent over him. 

“Yes,” he said, overwhelmed by the myriad emotions flowing through him. “We have an agreement.” 

“Good.” 

Finality marked the Elf’s tone and once the trade was sealed, Legolas released the Horse Lord. Éomer watched dumbfounded as the Elf waded towards the bank, picked up his discarded cloak and began to dry himself. 

“We must get back to the palace,” Legolas explained as though nothing had passed between them. “The hour is late.” 

“I see,” Éomer replied, still bewildered by the situation. He had clearly misunderstood. It was for the best, he decided. “There is something I must do first,” the Man added hastily and before the Elf could reply, the King of Rohan dove into the water to cool his overheated senses. 

tbc…


	5. An Unexpected Guest

The two Kings signed the trade agreement the following afternoon. Legolas had wasted no time in asking his advisors to draw up a draft the night of the coronation and had subsequently sent it to the Lord of the Riddermark for his approval. The King of Rohan’s advisors were considerably more miffed at the unorthodox procedure of the negotiation but did not question it, as their King seemed quite intent to get it done. For his part, Éomer dwelt on Gimli’s words during the midday feast as he signed the official parchment. _They invite their prey to a feast, fill their cups, sign a deal and then cure them in the morning._ An Elvish conspiracy indeed. But if that were true, the Man reasoned, where was his cure? Was there a cure for what Legolas had awakened in him? 

The King of Rohan and his delegation together with the Dwarves of the Glittering Caves left the woods of Eryn Lasgalen a day later. It was agreed that Legolas would bring Echuir to Rohan in a week’s time, and the process of selecting horses and finding a suitable rider for the stallion would begin. The return journey to Rohan was uneventful and when Éomer saw the open plains of the Riddermark stretched before him, the Horse Lord breathed a contented sigh. It was always good to be home. 

Éomer effortlessly slipped into his daily routine. The people had missed him in his absence and there was always some matter to attend to. Not once did he dwell on Legolas or their encounters in the magical Elven city. Eryn Lasgalen became distant and remote; the memories of his time there developed the warm afterglow of a pleasant dream, the details of which had become hazy in his mind and this did not trouble him. 

However, at the end of the week, Legolas did not come. Éomer stood on the wide verandah of the Golden Hall and watched as a lone rider wearing the forest green cloak bearing the insignia of the special Greenwood envoy approached the gates of Edoras and was granted entrance. The Elven messenger dismounted and bowed before the King, pulling back his hood to reveal a head of golden hair before delivering his message. Éomer read it quickly. Legolas had been detained by an unexpected border dispute. The Elven King expected the matter to be resolved quickly and graciously asked for Éomer’s pardon and consideration. The Elf ended the message by saying that he would come at his earliest convenience but could not give an exact date. The King of Rohan maintained his stoic visage as he read the message. Then he told the envoy to rest and take some refreshment while he wrote a suitable reply. As the King of Rohan went to his study, he could feel the slight heaviness in his step mirroring the heaviness he felt in his heart. He was disappointed that the Elf had not come.

~*~*~*~

Legolas did not come the following week or the week after that, and no further word was heard from the Elven King. Éomer had already asked his wranglers to cull together the best of the wild horses for Legolas’s inspection. It was stipulated in the trade agreement that all the horses must be unbroken and handpicked by the Elven King on site. Éomer let the matter rest, knowing that Legolas would come as soon as he was able.

It was during this time that Lothíriel arrived, sent on a diplomatic mission by her father. It was a bold move that carried a double purpose – strengthening the relations between Rohan and Gondor as well as allowing the young princess a chance to become more familiar with the ways of the Mark and its daily affairs. The King of Rohan was too occupied with ruling his kingdom and being a good suitor to Lothíriel to give much thought to a horse trade that had been negotiated under dubious circumstances in another land. 

Therefore, the Lord of the Riddermark was taken by surprise when a page approached him one bright summer afternoon to inform him that a visiting party of some importance was entering the city gates. Éomer looked out the window of his study just in time to see the gates close behind the party and he immediately recognized the forest green colors of the King of Eryn Lasgalen. A magnificent black stallion rode at the head of the group and there was no mistaking its rider. But the Horse Lord also noted something unusual about the group. With the Elven King and his royal guards rode a smaller team of soldiers surrounding an Elven carriage that did not bear the familiar crest of Legolas’ royal family. Apparently, the King of Rohan would have more guests than he had anticipated. 

Éomer went to his study to join Lothíriel who was already waiting on the wide verandah outside Meduseld. He greeted her with a kiss on the cheek as she asked, “Will you receive your guests in the throne room?” 

The Man shook his head. “Legolas does not particularly care for formality,” he answered. “I prefer to greet them here.” 

Lothíriel nodded and together they waited at the top of the long steps that led to the Golden Hall. The carriage soon pulled into view and its mysterious occupant, a beautiful Elven maid, stepped outside, aided by none other than the Elven King himself. Even from this distance Éomer could see her radiant smile as she accepted Legolas’s proffered arm. She was very beautiful. Her dress was the hue of the first break of light over the plains; its fine Elven embroidery and delicate beading shimmered as she walked in the afternoon sunshine. But her most striking feature was her hair. It flowed freely about her and was the deepest, richest shade of auburn that the Rohan King had ever seen. She said a few words to her escort as they climbed the steps and Legolas laughed. Éomer marked how at ease they were with each other. Curiosity and a slightly more sinister emotion completely alien to the Horse Lord was starting to get the better of him. Without realizing it, he had pursed his lips into a thin tight smile by the time his Elven guests had reached the top of the stairs. 

“Lord Éomer and Lady Lothíriel,” Legolas greeted them graciously. “Please forgive my sudden and unannounced arrival. Allow me to present to you Lady Aduial of Northern Greenwood.” 

“But of course,” Lothíriel said warmly, moving forward to embrace the Elven Lady. “How are you Aduial?” 

“I am better,” Aduial answered. “No thanks to my liege.” She gave the Elven King a sideways smile that made Éomer purse his lips even tighter. 

“You already know each other?” Legolas asked in an amused tone. 

“We met during your coronation,” Aduial chastised, playfully tapping the Elf on the arm. “Lothíriel and I have much in common,” she added, giving the other woman a sly wink. 

The King of Rohan was starting to feel like a forgotten stranger in his own realm. 

“I am afraid that we did not have the pleasure of meeting during the coronation,” Éomer interrupted, stepping forward and taking Aduial’s hand to kiss it. 

“No,” Aduial agreed. “But your reputation precedes you, Your Highness.” 

“Call me Éomer, please,” the Horse Lord insisted. 

Aduial glanced at Legolas again and smiled, making the Man wonder about the exact nature of the two Elves’ relationship, before looking at the King of Rohan. “Éomer it is,” she said. 

Éomer was about to address Legolas directly when an Elven guard approached the group and caught the Elven King’s attention. The Man immediately recognized the Elf as the one who had succumbed to Rúmil’s charms the night before Legolas’s coronation. The Silvan Elf seemed quite different in the light of day, strengthening the Horse Lord’s belief that time and reality had somehow been suspended on that enchanted night. 

“Yes, Lossendir?” Legolas inquired. “Is something the matter?” 

“My Lord,” Lossendir began. “I’m sorry to disturb you, but Echuir is being difficult. He will not allow himself to be handled by any of the guards and refuses to enter the royal stables.” 

“I see,” Legolas replied with a small sigh. “Then I shall see to him myself.” Returning his attention to his companions, Legolas said, “Please go in without me. I shall follow once Echuir is settled.” Then he grasped the Horse Lord’s forearm and he said, “I promise you that he will not always be this difficult. Echuir will discover that there is much to love in your noble land just as I have.” Dropping his voice a little lower the Elven King added, “Still the very air I breathe excites me. I look forward to spending some time with you later. I suspect we have much to catch up on.” 

The King of Rohan watched as Legolas, accompanied by Lossendir, went down the steps he had just climbed. The Horse Lord suddenly had a desire to speak to the Elf, to discuss things that appeared forbidden, to understand why a few minutes in the Elf’s company had this effect on him. But it would have to wait. Now was not the time. Instead, he turned around and followed Lothíriel and Aduial who had already entered the Golden Hall, talking animatedly. The Man’s eyes followed the form of the comely Elven maid. There was a great deal he wished to know about her.

~*~*~*~

Éomer was unable to spend time with Legolas for the rest of the afternoon. Even during the evening meal, the conversation and the guests present prevented him from touching on topics that were foremost in his mind. He had, however, managed to learn more information about his mysterious Elven guest. Aduial and her party had been on their way to Gondor when they had been ambushed by bandits just outside southern Greenwood, which after the War of the Ring had been given to Lord Celeborn and renamed as East Lórien. Fortuitous timing had seen the party rescued by the King of Eryn Lasgalen and his Royal Guard, who were on their way to Rohan. The combined parties decided to detour to Lothlórien to rest and replenish their supplies. They stayed in the city of the Galadhrim for three days under the hospitality of Haldir, for Lord Celeborn had long since departed to dwell with the sons of Elrond in Imladris.

As Éomer listened to Aduial recount the tale, it reminded him of the bedtime stories told by his mother during his childhood of dashing knights saving damsels in distress. Legolas and Aduial could not have better epitomized the age-old archetypes, reinforcing the belief that fairytale heroes and their beautiful princesses still lived and breathed among them. Such stories always ended in the same manner, and as the King of Rohan watched the two Elven nobles laugh and converse at the dinner table, it seemed quite reasonable to him that their story would end the same way. It made him lose his appetite. 

After the meal, the guests retired to their various rooms and the Horse Lord used this opportunity to invite Legolas to his study for a nightcap under the pretense of discussing their plans for the following day. It was not entirely a pretense, the Man reasoned to himself as he led the Elven King to his study; for they really did need to discuss the plans for carrying out the horse trade. It was just that there were other matters that needed discussing as well. 

The King of Rohan swung open the heavy oak door to his study and stood aside to let Legolas pass, closing the door behind the Elf. His study was his favorite room in the palace. Given the choice of working outdoors or being cooped inside Meduseld, the Rohan King would always choose the freedom of the plains, but he was rarely given that choice. Since most of his work needed to be done indoors, he had set about making his study a place that he would enjoy spending a great deal of time in. That is why it was furnished with a long rich, velvet, maroon sofa and matching armchairs with a low oak coffee table placed in the center of the set, as well as his wide oak desk with its comfortable carved chair. One wall was lined with bookcases, for though few would have guessed it, the King of Rohan had become an avid reader after assuming the throne. Opposite the bookcases were large double windows that during the day gave the Horse Lord a magnificent view of Edoras and the rolling plains beyond, but at this time of night they were closed and shuttered. On the third wall opposite Éomer’s desk was the fireplace. 

Legolas surveyed the room as Éomer went to the small table behind his desk to pour two goblets of brandy. He liked the study immediately. It felt lived in and homey, unlike most palace rooms that often had an atmosphere of impersonality and coldness. He paid particular attention to the magnificent tapestry that hung on the wall on top of the fireplace. It spanned the length of the room and depicted the glory of Eorl the Young, who was called such because he succeeded his father in youth and remained ruddy-cheeked until the end of his days. The tapestry showed how Eorl and his men came to the aid of the besieged northern army of Gondor on the Field of Celebrant in the year 2510 of the Third Age. To reward Eorl for his unfailing support, the Steward of Gondor, Cirion, gave Calenardhon, the land between the Anduin and the Isen, to Eorl and his people. Here the people of Eorl settled and renamed the land the Mark of the Riders and its people, the Eorlingas; but in Gondor, the land was known as Rohan and its people the Rohirrim. Thus, Eorl became the first King of the Mark. 

“Eorl is still the greatest of our kings,” Éomer remarked as he came to stand beside the Elf and handed him his goblet of brandy. 

Legolas nodded his thanks and continued to look at the tapestry thoughtfully. The Horse Lord was standing near enough that he could smell a fresh pine scent from the Elf. He still smells of his beloved woods, the Man thought, the scent triggering a cloudy memory and Éomer discreetly turned his head to study his companion. 

“Rohan has a history of great kings,” Legolas said. “Your uncle was one of them.” Then he turned to meet the Man’s gaze, instantly holding Éomer captive. “And you have done many great deeds for one so young.” 

Éomer took a sip of his brandy to hide the blush he could feel in his cheeks. He often forgot that the Elf surpassed him by centuries, millennia even, for Legolas had never lost his air of youthfulness, of exuberance, of mischief. He flashed the Man such a knowing smile that the Horse Lord could feel his blush deepen and he motioned for them to sit down. He was about to settle in his favorite armchair when the Elven King grasped him by the arm and directed him to the velvet sofa, and its rich maroon color had never seemed so enticing to the Horse Lord before. Legolas elegantly sat down, gently pulling the Man down to sit beside him. 

“What have you done since I saw you last?” the Elf inquired. 

“Nothing extraordinary,” the Man replied. He smiled and took another sip of his brandy. Alcohol and his Elven companion struck him as a dangerous combination, which is why he took another sip before speaking again. “But I understand that you have been busy.” 

Legolas laughed. “The border dispute,” he said with a shake of his head. “That was certainly ‘nothing extraordinary.’” 

“Actually,” Éomer said. “I was referring to Aduial.” 

“Aduial?” 

“Yes. How often does one save an Elven lady from a team of bandits?” 

“Princess,” Legolas corrected. “An Elven princess.” Éomer raised an eyebrow in surprise. He had not been aware of that particular fact. “Aduial is descended from a line of Nandor kings who settled in northern Greenwood long ago, but I shall not bore you with Elvish history,” Legolas added. “Suffice it to say that Aduial’s family is as old as mine and she dislikes the use of her title.” 

“An Elven princess then,” the Rohan King revised, pausing to choose his words carefully. “During dinner,” he began, “I noticed that on several occasions, you called her by another name. What was it?” 

“Ah, yes,” Legolas laughed. “I called her ‘Rûnia’. It is an Old Sindarin word that means ‘fiery red’. No doubt you can guess where she received that nickname from.” 

“You must be very close,” the Horse Lord commented, “to call her by such a name.” 

“We are old childhood friends,” the Elven King replied. “In fact,” he added mischievously, leaning over and placing his hand on Éomer’s knee. “I shared my first kiss with her.” 

Éomer nodded thoughtfully and absently said, “She must have been a good teacher.” Then he glanced abruptly at the Elf, realizing what he had just said. 

Legolas found Éomer’s discomfort endearing and he squeezed the Man’s knee gently as he said in a low voice, “Why do you assume that she taught me?” 

Éomer laughed nervously. The seduction in the Elf’s voice, his proximity, his scent – it was becoming too much for him and the Man found himself drinking deeply from his goblet. This was not how he had intended to begin the conversation. Attuned to the Horse Lord’s unease, Legolas pulled back and decided to try another approach. 

“How is Lothíriel?” 

Éomer almost choked on his brandy. From one uncomfortable subject to another and he was yet to bring up that which he most wanted to discuss, the hardest subject of them all. 

“She is well,” he managed to say. 

“I assume you’ve spent time with her during her visit?” 

“Yes,” Éomer agreed. “The courtship is proceeding smoothly.” 

“Proceeding smoothly?” the Elf repeated, arching an eyebrow questioningly. “That hardly sounds like a man in love.” 

“Is love necessary for a successful political marriage?” 

“No,” Legolas admitted, “but it is a welcome luxury.” 

“Would you marry for love?” Éomer asked suddenly. 

The Elven King did not reply straight away, but his lips curved into a wicked smile as though he found the question challenging. Éomer instinctively leaned in to better hear what the Elf would say. 

“That question is not the same for you and I,” Legolas began enigmatically. “With an endless supply of time, I could wait to find the one I love despite the pressure to marry from my advisors.” 

“But what if you do not find this person,” the Rohan King persisted. “Does that mean you would not marry? Or what if the one you found was– ” 

“Unacceptable?” Legolas’s smile grew wider. He had also moved closer as the Man spoke, skillfully maneuvering himself into the Horse Lord’s personal space; the Man’s arm now rested behind his back on the top of the sofa. “Why do you ask me these questions?” he whispered. He could feel Éomer’s hand wrap around his shoulder and he placed his hand on the Man’s knee again, slowly moving upwards. 

Éomer no longer heard the Elf’s words. His eyes remained focused on the soft lips so near his own. Near enough to kiss if only he were brave enough to do so. _Why does he have this effect on me?_ the Horse Lord wanted to scream. Éomer closed his eyes. He did not fully understand what was happening, nor the implications of their actions, but he knew that this was something he had to do. 

Legolas studied his friend carefully. They were no longer in Greenwood, no longer surrounded by the security and safety of that Elven realm. If Éomer truly wished to pursue what they had started, the Horse Lord would have to make the next move. When the Man opened his eyes, Legolas knew that a decision had been made and the devious smile left his lips to be replaced by a smile of tender encouragement. Just as Éomer leaned over to kiss the Elf a knock sounded at the door. 

The King of Rohan cursed softly as the two automatically broke apart. Who could have such abominable timing? 

“Come in,” he called, his voice hinting at his agitation. 

The oak door was pushed open and Aduial stepped inside. 

“My lords,” she said deferentially. “I hope I am not interrupting,” she added, looking from Man to Elf. 

“Not at all,” Éomer assured her, hoping his voice did not sound as brusque to her as it did to him. “What can I do for you?” he added in a softer tone. 

“Actually,” Aduial replied. “I was looking for Legolas. Lothíriel suggested that I may find him here.” 

“You have found me,” Legolas said. “Now what may I do for you?” 

The teasing lilt had returned to the Elf’s voice, making the Horse Lord feel as though _he_ were the one interrupting their conversation. The multi-layered tones in their voices left no doubt as to their deep-rooted history. Éomer was an outsider and as he looked at Aduial, he discovered that he found her threatening and this realization confused him even more. The Man had lost track of the exchange, so wrapped up was he in his own thoughts. He did not become aware of his companions’ actions until Legolas stood up and addressed him. 

“We will continue this another time,” the Elf said and the Man stood up as well, slightly disoriented by the situation. 

“Of course,” Éomer replied graciously. Did he detect a note of disappointment in the Elf’s voice? 

The Rohan King escorted his two guests to the door of his study and bid them both a good night. Legolas and Aduial had their own business to attend to and the Man did not wish to dwell on what that business might be. He was truly imagining things if he believed that Legolas regretted that their evening had come to an abrupt end. If one had a choice between spending an evening with a beautiful, intelligent Elven princess or a scruffy human king, any sane Man or Elf would choose the former, making the Horse Lord question his own sanity. 

Éomer remained in his study a while longer and pulled out an old book on horse breeds. He flipped through it listlessly but could not concentrate on the pages. He poured himself another goblet of brandy and tried reading the book again. It was no use. He stood up heavily and went to his desk that was scattered with papers that needed to be read and signed. He stared at the sheaves. Unpleasant work. His goblet was empty again and he poured himself another helping. The brandy was certainly not assisting him with his work, but it was improving his disposition. He had almost, but not quite, forgotten about his Elven guests and their nocturnal activities. 

At last the Horse Lord decided to retire to his chambers. He locked his study behind him and began walking down the empty hallway to his quarters. The walk seemed longer than usual to him. The King of Rohan had gotten lost in his thoughts again, an often enough occurrence on this particular night, and the Man trusted his feet to know which direction to take. Without realizing it, he had subconsciously entered the guest wing where Legolas and Aduial were staying. Common sense told him to leave immediately, but the Horse Lord was not following common sense, especially when he noticed that one of the doors had been conspicuously left ajar. Curiously, he walked towards it wondering whose room it led to. It was careless of the occupant to leave their door unlocked. As secure as Meduseld was, Éomer made up his mind to shut the door for the sake of privacy and safety. 

As the King drew nearer, he recognized the insignia of Aduial’s family that had been placed to the left of the doorframe. The Man stopped in front of the door. It was wide enough so that he could hear voices speaking inside. Aduial’s quarters were unusual among the guest chambers of Meduseld. If he wished to take a peek, Éomer knew that he would remain well concealed, for a short hallway, hardly more than a corridor, led into the room at the end of which were heavy gauze curtains separating the main sitting room from the corridor. Aduial had been given one of the more lavish apartments and so the Elven Princess had a separate sitting room and bedchamber, as well as a private bath. 

Éomer’s natural inquisitiveness combined with the effect of the brandy overcame him and he pushed the door wide enough to step through, his original intention of shutting it far from his thoughts. The door’s hinges were well oiled and did not creak. As quietly as possible he walked down the corridor, taking care not to brush the wooden walls with his heavy clothing so as not to make a sound. The Man wondered whether his Elven guests’ heightened senses would be able to detect his presence but another thought crossed his mind, namely that his guests might be too preoccupied with other activities to notice or care. This sobered the Horse Lord a little, but not enough to deter him from his goal. 

The corridor was dark. Only the barest candlelight managed to penetrate through the thick gauze curtains at the end of the hallway. Éomer could hardly see the path in front of him and believed it to be a miracle that he did not trip over his own feet. The voices became more distinct and there was no doubt who the occupants of the sitting room were. The Horse Lord’s thoughts briefly flitted to his counterpart in Gondor and for a moment, the Man wished he had some knowledge of the Elvish language. Why, even the Steward of Gondor was well versed in the ancient tongue. There was nothing he could do to change that now, he thought, stopping a foot away from the curtains. He moved to the left where the light from the room did not penetrate the dark hallway, ensuring that the Man remained completely shrouded in shadow. Carefully he peered into the room, viewing it through the deep maroon tinge of the curtain. He could see Legolas sitting in an armchair, perfectly at ease as he held a goblet in his hand. The Elf was smiling though Éomer could not see whom or what he was smiling at. Aduial’s voice could be heard, playful in its lilting tone and soon the Elven Princess came into view, also carrying her own goblet. She took a sip from it before setting it down on a small table beside the armchair where her guest sat. Éomer could see her profile from his hiding place and the Man could not help but admire her beauty. They made a handsome couple. 

Slowly Aduial sank to the floor before Legolas’s feet. She had changed into a deep, auburn gown for dinner and the rich hue of the velvet material perfectly highlighted her burnished hair. She smiled at Legolas as the Elven King leaned forward in a seductive manner to say something to her. His comment made the Princess laugh and Éomer remarked that her laugh sounded like tinkling bells. It made his chest tighten. Aduial responded by leaning forward herself as though she meant to kiss her companion, but Legolas drew back smoothly and watched her with an inviting smile on his face. Aduial accepted the invitation, rising up to kneel and placing both her hands on the Elven King’s knees. Then she paused and locked eyes with Legolas. They had played this game before. 

Delicate hands leisurely traveled up the King’s thighs, gently spreading them apart as they did so. All the while Legolas held her gaze, almost daring her to continue. Aduial obliged, not wavering for an instant. Her hands reached their destination, and though her actions were concealed from Éomer’s prying eyes, he knew what she was doing. Then their eye contact broke as Aduial bent down, placing her head in the King’s lap. Legolas let out a small sigh and leaned back in his chair as the warm mouth engulfed him. 

Éomer released a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. His eyes focused on the Elven King and the golden curtain of hair that fell over the Elf’s left shoulder, the way Legolas rested his head against the armchair so that it was tilted to the right, a half-smile on his face, his eyes shut. The Man marked the Elf’s lean form, the strength he knew that lay beneath that slender frame and the ivory hands that gripped the chair’s arm rests as Aduial continued her ministrations. The air in the corridor had suddenly become very hot and the Horse Lord could feel beads of perspiration break out on his back. His clothing had become too tight but he could not divert his eyes from the scene before him. He wondered what it would be like to be in Aduial’s place, to serve the Elven King as she was serving him. But was it really servitude? To provide such pleasure was a means of control. It put her in a place of dominance. Could the Rohan King usurp that place and hold his counterpart in thrall as Legolas so easily did to him? Or perhaps, his mind insisted, he would prefer that Legolas ‘serve’ him instead? 

The Man stumbled backwards. He could hardly breathe in the stifling air of the passageway. He needed to be free from its confines and the thoughts that invaded him there. Looking up he saw that Legolas had been alerted by the sound and the Elven King appeared to be staring straight at him through the gauze curtains. Impossible, the Man thought to himself. Legolas could not see him. With a heavy heart and a confused mind the Horse Lord turned around and blindly groped his way out of the dark corridor. 

tbc...


	6. Interlude: In the Shadows of Meduseld

Legolas leaned back against the velvet armchair as Aduial took him in her mouth. He was aware of how skilled she was in this arena but as he closed his eyes, his mind conjured up another face that made the Elf smile. He imagined that it was not an Elven Princess who pleasured him, but a King of Men. He could almost feel the bristles of Éomer’s rough beard tickle his thighs and smell the heady mix of saddle soap and polished leather that seemed to follow the Man wherever he went. Even now the scent seemed to be lingering in the room, but Legolas attributed that to his vivid imagination. And besides, the Elf reasoned, he had been in close proximity to the Horse Lord earlier that evening. No doubt the Man’s scent had rubbed off on him. 

A soft sound from the door caught the Elf’s attention and he opened his eyes, automatically looking in the direction of the darkened corridor. With his senses now alert the smell of saddle soap and polished leather was stronger than ever, assuring the Elven King that it was not only his vivid imagination at work. Someone was there. Legolas stared intently at the heavy gauze curtains that covered the doorway. He could almost detect movement behind them but he was not certain. Then he heard the unmistakable sound of the shuffling of feet as irregular steps faded down the hallway. The Elf smiled again to himself, knowing that his ploy to leave the door ajar had been a success. 

Satisfied, Legolas rested his head against the armchair once more, glancing down at the fiery head of hair that was nestled in between his legs and he let out a ragged breath. Aduial had not stopped her actions, completely oblivious to their secret guest. She was taking him deeper now and increasing her pace. Legolas knew that he would come soon and he shut his eyes again bringing forth that handsome face with the deep-set brown eyes and the tender smile. He pictured the sensuous mouth and remembered how it had tasted; imagining that it was the same mouth he spilled into now, and the Horse Lord’s name almost escaped his lips.

~*~*~*~

Éomer had seen enough. In fact, he had seen too much. Blood pounded in his temples and his body felt as though it were on fire. From somewhere deep inside him he knew that he wished to partake in their pleasure but it was not his place to do so. Therefore, he did not see the rapture on Legolas’s face as the Elf reached his climax, his mouth silently forming the Horse Lord’s name. Éomer was not present when Aduial looked up from her completed task and was instantly seized by the Elven King in a searing kiss. The Man could not have known that he was the driving force behind that passion.

The Horse Lord did not see Legolas lift the Elven Princess to her feet and then carry her into the bedchamber. He would have been grateful that he did not watch as Legolas laid his companion on the soft bed, nor how Aduial reached out invitingly and how Legolas accepted. Éomer could only guess how prepared Aduial was to receive Legolas, but he never would have imagined that the Elven King had no desire to lay with the beautiful Elven maid. He would have been surprised to see Legolas lift Aduial’s velvet gown and caress her smooth legs before finally pleasuring her with his strong fingers. Afterwards, the Rohan King would have seen his counterpart tenderly bid the princess a good night and discreetly leave the room as Aduial’s eyes glazed over into Elven reverie. 

Éomer could not possibly have known all that had transpired after his departure as he stumbled down the deserted hallway in his disoriented state. He wished to make his way back to his own rooms but could not remember the direction. Needing to stop for a moment to still his rapidly beating heart, the Man finally rested his head against the cool stone wall in a darkened part of the hallway, several feet away from the nearest burning torch. His tunic had begun to feel warm and he haphazardly untied some of the top laces with his right hand. Once that was done, Éomer rested the same hand over his heart, as if by doing so he could remove the dull ache he felt inside. His heartbeat was returning to normal, and as it did so that hand moved further down his body, undoing the laces of his breeches and slipping inside almost of its own accord. It was madness to do this here where someone could stumble upon him. With his eyes shut the Horse Lord summoned the face of the golden being that haunted his thoughts, the blue eyes that pierced his very soul and the melodic voice that soothed him with its gentle tones. It said, “Why does the King of the Riddermark stand by himself in the shadows of a hallway in Meduseld?” 

“I am lost,” Éomer answered truthfully. 

“Shall I help you find your way?” 

The Horse Lord laughed, an unmistakable sadness in the sound. “Will you help me find my way?” he repeated. “Or will you lead me further astray?” 

“Is that what you think I am doing?” 

Éomer did not reply but let out a low sigh, his eyes still closed. He knew that Legolas was standing behind him now even though he had not heard the Elf approach. The clean smell of fresh pine was near him, followed by the feeling of a warm body pressed against his own as the Elf embraced him and rested his chin on Éomer’s shoulder. They stayed that way for several moments in silence. 

Finally Éomer asked, “What are you doing here?” 

“Returning to my chambers,” Legolas answered. “You do realize that you are standing a few feet away from my door?” 

Éomer glanced to his right where the torch burned by the frame of a wooden door. As a matter of fact, he had not realized that he had stopped beside the Elven King’s room and a wry smile crossed his face. “No,” he said quietly. “I was too preoccupied to notice.” But my subconscious appears to be doing most of my thinking tonight, was the thought that he did not voice. 

“I see.” 

Legolas’s tone was contemplative and the Man wondered what move the Elf would make next. As if in answer to his silent question, the Horse Lord could feel the Elf shift behind him, lifting one hand to brush Éomer’s long mane over the Man’s left shoulder. Then he bent down again and placed a tender kiss on the now exposed neck. Éomer let out another sigh. He could feel his heartbeat quickening. Unconsciously taking his lead from the Elf, he leaned further into Legolas’s embrace, placing his right hand against the wall to give him leverage. Legolas had wrapped one arm around his waist and Éomer covered it with his own, almost desperate to keep his companion in place. 

Legolas could feel Éomer’s sudden urgency and he tried to placate him with soft kisses along his neck and the circular massaging motion of his other hand on the Man’s chest. Gradually he worked his way down until his hand slipped into the open breeches. Éomer sucked in his breath and released it through gritted teeth. 

“Will you finish what you start?” he asked. 

“I _always_ finish what I start,” Legolas whispered in his ear, flicking out his tongue to lick the outer curve, making the Man shudder at the sensation. 

Legolas allowed his fingers to tangle in the rough curls until he reached the base of the Man’s half-erect shaft. With a few smooth strokes he brought Éomer to full hardness and then he stopped. He relished the feel of the Man in his hand, taking his time to explore the breadth and length of him. Éomer was well-endowed, the Elf thought with a small smile as he ran his thumb over the top length of the shaft, pausing to draw lazy circles at the tip and then traveling along the backside, finally stopping to give the sacs a gentle squeeze. 

“Legolas, please,” Éomer gasped. The Elf’s exploratory actions were maddening, sending him to the brink of release but never granting it. 

“Patience,” Legolas said softly, firmly gripping the Man’s shaft as he did so. His other arm tightened around the Horse Lord’s waist, anticipating that Éomer would attempt to set his own pace by thrusting into his hand. Éomer groaned in frustration as Legolas stilled his actions, forcing him to abide by the Elf’s wishes. Legolas would not always be in control, the Man silently promised himself. 

Legolas set an irregular pace, alternately squeezing and stroking the leaking shaft. He was still testing the boundaries of the Man’s resilience, wondering how much the Rohan King could take before he was reduced to begging. For his part, Éomer said nothing, resting his head against the Elf’s shoulder, eyes half-shut as he endured the Elf’s agonizing actions. Impressed by his partner’s fortitude, Legolas eventually steadied his rhythm, marking the Man’s ragged deep breathing and the sigh of relief that escaped his lips. He was applying long, smooth strokes now and Éomer turned his head to the right, burying it into the crook of the Elf’s neck and inhaling Legolas’ sweet scent. 

“It is not enough,” Éomer heard himself whisper and then froze, not quite believing what he had just revealed. 

Legolas broke off his actions, his lips curving into a slow smile. With a quick kiss on Éomer’s cheek, he slid down the Man’s body in one fluid motion until he was kneeling before him. Éomer looked down in anticipation, torn between the desire to feel the Elf take him in his mouth and the realization that things were progressing too quickly for his mind to comprehend the consequences. Legolas locked eyes with him briefly and desire trumped rational thought when the Elf dived down, all pretense of patience far from both their thoughts. 

Éomer stifled a moan as Legolas took him deep, teeth gently scraping against his most sensitive parts. The Elf steadied him with one hand at the waist and another behind the Man’s right thigh. Éomer was thankful for the support, certain that he would have collapsed without it. Already he could feel his knees threatening to buckle from the sheer pleasure Legolas’s talented mouth was providing. The Elf studiously continued in his task, knowing that the Man was near his peak. In a matter of moments his mouth was flooded with a thick salty fluid that he swallowed without hesitation, ignoring the bitter taste that too often reminded him of the Edain’s mortality. 

Once Éomer was spent, he felt his body relax, releasing the tension that had been with him since the Elf’s arrival earlier that afternoon. He slumped forward and found himself once again caught in the Elf’s embrace as Legolas rose to his feet after diligently tying the Horse Lord’s breeches. The Elf’s smile was tender as he gently kissed the Man’s brow and brushed the sweat stained hair away from his face. The fluttering kisses continued down the side of his face until their lips met and Éomer returned the kiss fervently. He could taste his own essence in the Elf’s mouth and he wondered how Legolas could stand the bitter aftertaste. He was certain that the Elf would not taste the same but doubted that he would ever have the courage to find out, and this realization filled him with an immense sadness that he channeled into their kiss. 

The Elven King, mistaking his counterpart’s desperation as a sign of eagerness, broke off the kiss to pull away and look his partner squarely in the eye. He held Éomer’s hand in his own as he pulled the Man towards his lighted doorway. 

“Shall we continue this inside?” he asked in a low seductive voice. 

Éomer shook his head. “I cannot,” he whispered, his voice breaking over the last syllable. 

Understanding dawned upon the Elf and he released the Man’s hand. 

“Very well,” Legolas conceded. He looked at the floor briefly, hiding a sad smile from the Rohan King before speaking again. His tone changed as he said, “Tomorrow I shall begin the process of selecting horses as was stipulated in our trade agreement. Naturally, I shall stay until a suitable rider is found for Echuir,” he added, “and will also assist in their training.” 

Then Legolas took another step towards the Man, cupping Éomer’s cheek with his left hand. Éomer unconsciously leaned into the touch. 

“My door remains open to you, Éomer,” he offered. “When you are ready.” 

With these words, the Elf kissed him chastely on the lips before turning around and disappearing into his room, leaving the King of Rohan to stand alone in the shadows of the silent hallway. 

tbc. . .


	7. The Search for a Rider

Secretly, the King of Rohan did not hold out much hope of finding a rider for his newly acquired headstrong stallion. Echuir was too much like Déor and neither stallion could be ridden by simply anyone. Therefore, a rider of such a steed would not only have to possess exceptional riding skill, but would have to be chosen specifically by the stallion for reasons probably known only to the animal himself. Seeing the bond forged between Echuir and the Elven King reminded Éomer of the difficult, if not impossible task that lay ahead. The Rohan King had briefly considered this predicament before signing the trade agreement but now he realized that he should have given it more thought. Legolas had said that he would help him find a rider and the Horse Lord had too readily believed his Elven counterpart. 

Echuir might now belong to him on paper, but the Man knew that the steed would forever be faithful to the Elven King, and that thought both saddened and pleased him. To have Echuir near was like capturing the essence of Elvish spirit and freedom that had been so prevalent to him during his stay in Legolas’s realm. But even that assessment rung hollow at its core, for the Horse Lord knew that such a spirit could never be contained and could never belong to him. The Man was acutely reminded of this as he glanced at his Elven friend whose flaxen mane was being whipped by the gusts of wind that blew over the plains of one of the training grounds. Though Éomer would never admit it to himself, the lure of bringing Legolas to his land to stay for a period of time had been one of the reasons why he had agreed to the trade. Even if they were unable to find a rider, the Man reflected, Echuir’s pure Elvish blood would make him a fine breeding stallion. However, what would pass, or had not passed, between the two Kings was entirely another matter.

The first approach the Rohan King had decided upon was to summon the best riders from among his relations, distant or not, for Legolas’ and Echuir’s examination. If Echuir was to be ridden in the Rhovanion representing his house, it was logical that the rider of the stallion should also come from the House of Eorl. For five days the finest riders in his family had arrived only to be rebuffed or snorted at in disdain by the black stallion. Echuir eyed each man suspiciously, making Éomer realize how fortunate he had been on that first night in Greenwood when the stallion had accepted him so easily. On the odd occasion that Echuir allowed himself to be mounted by one of his prospective riders, said rider soon found himself on the hard earth nursing a sore bottom. The most promising candidate thus far had unexpectedly been Lord Egric, a second cousin to Éomer on his mother’s side. Lord Egric was soft-spoken and mild-mannered. Often accused of being too meek and genteel for a man of his position, Echuir had taken pity on the Lord and had allowed the Man to mount him. While Lord Egric was a capable rider and put Echuir through the paces, the stallion and the two Kings knew that Egric had neither the ambition nor the mettle to win the Rhovanion. 

In his discreet manner, Legolas also appraised each Man and Éomer’s relations often found themselves awed in the Elf’s presence. The Rohan King had always considered his Elven friend to be rather unassuming in the past, though one could never forget the nobility and strength the Elf innately carried. However, surrounded by a sea of Men, most of whom had only heard of the Firstborn through distant tales, Legolas shone like a brilliant jewel. With a fiery Elven stallion by his side, the Greenwood King exuded an aura of imperiousness that Éomer doubted even Legolas was aware of. Although the Horse Lord had never met the Elf’s father, the famed Woodland King, he could already see how his youngest son carried his father’s line. Éomer marveled at how effortlessly Legolas had appeared to take on the mantle of a ruler. It was in his blood. 

“Is there anyone else we should meet today?” the Elven King inquired, snapping the Man out of his thoughts. 

“Yes,” Éomer instinctively replied. “My third cousin, Caedmon arrived this morning. He should be here any minute. Caedmon is an accomplished rider.” 

Legolas cocked his head to the right as he noted the Horse Lord’s tone of voice, which was more telling than the words Éomer had just spoken. 

“You are not happy to see your cousin,” the Elf commented. 

Éomer let out a small laugh. “You are too perceptive,” he said with a slight shake of his head. “I am not particularly close to Caedmon,” he admitted. “We have come to blows in the past. I find some of his methods to be unnecessarily brutal and his personality to be somewhat . . . abrasive.” 

“And this Man is a relation of yours?” 

“Every family has one,” Éomer joked, trying to ease his negative assessment through humor. “But Caedmon _is_ an accomplished rider,” he repeated. “There is not a horse in Rohan that he has not been able to break, barring Déor, of course.” He nodded his head in the direction of a Man clad in fine riding clothes who was walking toward the pair. 

“To break an animal for riding is one thing,” Legolas said slowly, watching the Man approach, already appraising his nonchalant demeanor, the slight swagger he could detect in the Man’s step. “To break an animal’s spirit is another,” the Elf continued. “Echuir will never be tamed in that way.” 

“No,” Éomer agreed quietly. “I never thought he would.” Then he raised his voice in greeting as Caedmon drew near. 

“Cousin,” he said, stretching out his arm in the formal warrior’s greeting. “We have been waiting for you.” 

“I assure you the wait has not been in vain,” Caedmon replied confidently, grasping Éomer’s arm firmly.

Legolas watched the pair carefully. Their stance, the formality of their greeting and the indifference in their voices betrayed the negative feelings they tried to hide from one another. Caedmon was a tall man, standing half a foot higher than the King of the Mark. He had shoulder length hair of rich chocolate brown that framed his rather angular face and sharp hawked nose. Legolas noticed that his eyes were of the same chocolate hue as Éomer introduced his cousin to the Elven King. Caedmon bowed curtly before the Elf, flashing a thin-lipped smile that Legolas imagined could easily turn into a sneer. 

“And this,” Caedmon said, stepping past the two Kings, “must be the famed Elven stallion. What is his name?” 

Éomer bristled at his cousin’s presumptuousness, but a gentle squeeze on his arm and the sly smile Legolas gave him stopped the Horse Lord from saying anything rash. Curious to see what the Elf would do, the Rohan King decided to let Legolas handle the situation. 

“Yes,” Legolas said, stepping forward and motioning for Echuir to approach them. The stallion did so skittishly. Like all animals he had an instinct for danger and he did not like this Man at all. Legolas went to the horse and reassuringly rubbed its neck, whispering Elvish words into the animal’s ear. His actions calmed the stallion and he stood before the two Men proudly. 

“His name is Echuir,” Legolas said as Caedmon continued to scrutinize the animal. Echuir stared back defiantly. 

“Does he take bit and bridle?” Caedmon inquired. 

“If the occasion calls for it,” the Elf answered. “But my people prefer to ride bareback with no bridle. We find those accessories a hindrance.” 

Lord Caedmon’s response was a slight grunt, as though the idea of riding bareback without a bridle were barbaric to him. Then he dipped his right hand into the pocket of his breeches and pulled out a treat. Stepping confidently towards the horse, he held out his hand, fingers flat and straight lest Echuir choose to nibble them off. For his part, Echuir sniffed the harmless sugar cubes, finally flaring his nostrils and turning away. The stallion glanced at the Elf, indicating he thought this strange Man most foolish for trying to bribe him with sweets. Legolas had to suppress a laugh. 

Lord Caedmon’s thin-lipped smile grew thinner. The foreign creature had slighted him but he would not show any offense. This animal would learn, as had all the steeds before him. 

“I shall ride him bareback,” Caedmon announced. “But I insist upon a bridle.” 

“Very well,” Legolas agreed, waving to an Elven guard to bring a bridle. The Elf did so quickly, just as Caedmon’s young squire appeared with his lord’s riding helmet and whip. Legolas eyed the whip with a disapproving air. “That will not be necessary,” he said, his tone growing hard. 

Caedmon held up the long riding whip indifferently. “It is more of a decoration,” he said with a shrug, but the whip remained close to his side as Legolas put the bridle on Echuir. 

Once again the Elf spoke quiet words to the stallion as Echuir continued to look at Lord Caedmon with distrust. When he was done, Legolas handed the reins to the Man who mounted the stallion in one smooth motion, despite Echuir shying almost instantly from his touch. Lord Caedmon had excellent balance. Immediately, he put the animal on a tight rein although Echuir continued to resist the bit. 

“To fight will only make things more difficult,” Caedmon said in a low voice, certain that the animal would understand, but Echuir paid him no mind. Only a stern look from the Elven King made the steed grudgingly accept the bit. 

A satisfied smile crossed Lord Caedmon’s face as he put the animal into a brisk trot, riding in a wide circle around the two kings. Echuir responded quickly, tossing his head every now and then in an effort to loosen Caedmon’s tight rein. The horse’s antics only served to irk the Man and he tightened the reins further until Echuir’s long, elegant neck was bent nearly double, the horse’s muzzle only inches from his chest. Nostrils flaring, Echuir extended his trot threatening to break into a canter. Caedmon sensed that the stallion was eager to be let loose and after making one more experimental circle around Legolas and Éomer, he eased the animal into a canter. 

Echuir flew, taking his rider slightly by surprise by almost leaping into the air with his first stride. Caedmon relished the power of the animal beneath him. He could feel Echuir’s energy and spirit. What he could do with such a steed in a race as grand as the Rhovanion. His ambition and skill combined with the animal’s speed and stamina would ensure that victory would be his. Lord Caedmon would be the toast at this year’s Rhovanion. Echuir was gathering momentum and his rider, who had been lulled into a false security by the stallion, did not notice that the circle they were making was growing wider and wider, drifting further away from the two kings and moving towards the open plains. By the time this was brought to the Man’s attention, he attempted to steer the stallion back to the training field but Echuir continued to gallop forward, stretching his legs. Caedmon brutally yanked the right rein, pulling it down as far as his knee, forcing Echuir to change direction, but the stallion did not break his stride. He continued at his break neck pace, now heading back to the training field and a minor obstacle course that had been set up. The stallion wove in and out of the white painted wooden poles in an attempt to unbalance his rider. 

Caedmon held fast and braced himself as Echuir approached a large wooden jump easily five feet high and two feet wide. The horse flew over it and made for the next jump. Caedmon had lost control of the steed but he made a valiant attempt at not showing it, as though he had intended to go through the obstacle course all along. The Elven King, however, knew better as did his counterpart who was watching the scene unfold with a look of minor concern. As soon as Echuir had completed the treble, Legolas stepped forward and called out a command. 

“ _Daro!_ ” 

Echuir seemed to come to an almost immediate halt despite his breathtaking speed and his hapless rider who had been clinging onto a tuft of the horse’s mane, found himself sprawled on the animal’s neck in a most undignified manner. Echuir did not care for the uncomfortable weight on his neck and with one vigorous shake, he dispatched the troublesome man onto the hard earthen floor. Caedmon had slid off the stallion’s neck and now looked at the beast from his vantage point on the ground, his back sore from landing on a stone. The animal was laughing at him, he could see it in the stallion’s glittering eyes. With one final snort Echuir held his head high and proud, stepping past the infuriated Lord and walking back to his Elven master. Legolas fixed the horse with a stern look that Echuir returned in equal measure, annoyed that he should have had to put up with the rude rider in the first place. Eventually, Legolas’ lips curved into a small smile and he held his hand up to tell the stallion that all was forgiven. In his own way, the Elf was even more responsible for Lord Caedmon’s untimely fall. Echuir accepted the apology and rubbed his face against the Elven King’s palm, the two of them sharing in their private joke. 

At the same time, Caedmon’s men came to his aid and he brusquely pushed them aside. His mind was fuming. How dare that animal humiliate him! He brushed away the dust and soil from his clothes as he stormed towards the Elf and his stallion. 

“That beast,” he spat, waving his riding whip in Echuir’s direction, “needs to be taught a lesson!” 

“If that is so,” Legolas replied coldly, “it is a lesson that shall not be taught by you. We have seen what lesson you would teach.” 

Lord Caedmon was about to return a cutting reply but his liege smoothly interrupted by holding up his hand in entreaty.

“Cousin,” the King of Rohan began, “your encounter today has been an unfortunate one. But all here present have seen the wild spirit of this steed and other riders have been dealt with much more harshly. You rode him fearlessly and with great skill. Let the matter rest now, for it has been a long day and Echuir has had enough excitement.” 

Éomer’s soothing tone and diplomatic words placated the angry Lord and Caedmon lowered his head slightly in deference to the King’s suggestion. Still, he turned a hard eye on the Elf and his stallion as he said, “I demand the right to ride him again tomorrow.” 

“I’m afraid that won’t be possible,” Éomer interrupted again. “We will not be holding any trial runs tomorrow. Lady Aduial, one of our visiting dignitaries will be leaving for Gondor the day after tomorrow, and to speed her on her journey with best wishes from our land, we will be having a picnic in her honor tomorrow afternoon.” 

“I see.” 

There was an awkward silence before Legolas spoke. 

“We would be honored, Lord Caedmon,” he said, “if you would join our company tomorrow.” 

The offer took both men by surprise although both retained their composure. 

“In that case,” Caedmon said, addressing the Elven King, “far be it from me to refuse such hospitality. I would be delighted to be part of your company. Until tomorrow, then.” 

“We leave in the morning for the Éadig,” Éomer added. “We will arrive there for lunch and spend the afternoon there.” 

Caedmon nodded his head. “Then I shall be prepared,” he said. With a bow he bid the two kings farewell and proceeded to return to the city, his squire and attendants in tow. 

“That was . . . unexpected,” Éomer said when Caedmon was well out of earshot. 

“Your cousin’s encounter with the ground or my invitation?” 

The Horse Lord turned his head to look at the Elf, a wry smile on his face. “The invitation,” he clarified. 

“It seemed the least I could do after his unfortunate fall,” Legolas answered. “We cannot have one of the finest riders of the Mark leaving this training field with a bruised ego and an even harder heart.” 

“Caedmon is not to be toyed with,” Éomer said seriously. 

“I do not toy with Elves . . . or _Men_ ,” the Elven King said in response, emphasizing his final word. 

“Then there is a greater plan behind your actions?” the Horse Lord inquired innocently. 

“Always,” the Elf laughed in his musical voice. Then he smiled warmly at the Man, and put a hand on his shoulder. “Perhaps Lord Caedmon will provide us with more entertainment tomorrow. After all, it is he who needs to be taught a lesson.” 

Éomer shook his head, dreading to think of what the Elf had in store, yet secretly looking forward to it all the same. 

Legolas removed the bridle on Echuir as Éomer watched, handing it back to the Elven guard who had brought it to him in the first place. In a smooth motion, Legolas mounted the stallion and looked down at the Man. 

“I shall ride Echuir back,” the Elf declared. “Would you care to join me?” 

For a moment Éomer almost accepted the offer but then he shook his head. “Déor would be jealous,” he explained. 

Legolas laughed. “And so he should be,” he said mischievously. “ _Noro!_ ” he called to Echuir who took off, happy to be ridden by his master at last. 

Éomer watched the pair as they flew over the plains. There was such freedom about the Elf and all his actions, even though he too was bound by the duties of being a king. _Why was that?_ the Man wondered. What secret did Legolas possess that he was yet to uncover for himself? 

tbc...


	8. The Éadig Fields

The company left by mid-morning of the following day. Éomer informed them that it was approximately a three-hour ride to the Éadig Fields, and that they would arrive there just in time for lunch. In order to keep the company small and swift, the two Kings selected only their two best guards to accompany them, while the two princesses were attended by only one handmaiden apiece. Instead of riding in a carriage as was custom, Lady Lothíriel chose to ride a gentle chestnut mare, sidesaddle as proper etiquette dictated. Lady Aduial, who was freer in her Elvish ways, rode a fiery gray steed, bareback with only a hackamore. It amused the foursome that Lord Caedmon’s entourage composed of his squire, various attendants and guards, was larger than their combined parties put together. 

“Where are the Éadig Fields?” Lady Aduial inquired as the company went on their way. 

“The Fields lie to the northwest of Edoras,” Éomer explained. “They are named such because their land has remained ever fertile even through the harshest winter and in times of drought. It is believed that the land is blessed, for no other explanation suffices to explain its verdant grassland throughout the centuries. Éadig means ‘blessed’ in our tongue.” 

“I have heard the people refer to you as Éomer Éadig,” Legolas remarked, glancing at the Rohan King who rode beside him. 

The Horse Lord could feel a slight blush color his cheeks but before he could respond, Lothíriel answered in his stead. 

“You have heard correctly,” she told the Elven King proudly. “My Lord’s rule has brought such newfound peace and prosperity to the people that many already consider his reign to be ‘blessed.’ Thus, the name Éomer Éadig was born.” 

“It is fitting,” Legolas replied, giving Éomer a long look that the Horse Lord could not hold, directing his eyes on the path ahead. Both kings had not missed the possessive pronoun that had so easily slipped from Lothíriel’s lips in her explication. 

Shortly before noon the company reached the top of a wide hill; where they stopped for a moment to admire the view. Below them lay the famed Éadig Fields, the lush grass indeed seemed greener and more vibrant than anywhere else, while white and golden flowers studded the verdant fields, blowing elegantly on their slender stalks. A bubbling stream wound its way through the fields with patches of trees providing ideal shade for visiting groups. 

“Let us race to the camp site!” Aduial suddenly called, pointing in the direction of a particularly large clump of trees to the left of the party that lay beside the stream. 

Before anyone could respond to the Elven Princess’s suggestion, Aduial had already sprinted down the hill. Lothíriel, who did not normally act upon such impulses, immediately followed suit, motioning for her handmaiden to join her. The guards looked at their lieges for a moment, uncertain whether they should follow, curbing their natural instincts to protect the princesses. A quick nod from both kings granted them permission and soon they too were in pursuit. 

Echuir snorted and looked back at his master, wondering why they were not at the head of the pack, while a similar thought crossed Déor’s mind. Lord Caedmon wore a bored expression on his face, as though he thought these childish races to be beneath him. With a curt nod to his hosts, he and his party made their way down the hill at a leisurely pace. 

“Another race,” Legolas stated when the two kings were quite alone on top of the hill. 

“I am in no mood for that,” Éomer replied in a somewhat somber tone. 

Legolas glanced at his friend and arched an inquiring eyebrow. “What then,” he said gently, “are you ‘in the mood’ for?” 

The Rohan King looked at the Elf steadily for the first time all day and then said, “I would like to show you something, if you are agreeable to it.” 

Legolas nodded, intrigued by the Man’s mysterious behavior and he followed as Éomer turned Déor away from the fields below.

~*~*~*~

“You have been gone for far too long,” a reproving voice said as Legolas dismounted and turned to face his displeased childhood friend. Beside him Echuir snorted, an indication of his amusement at his master’s imminent trouble.

“My dear Rûnia,” Legolas replied in his most placating tone, “I have been gone for less than an hour.” 

“Forty-eight minutes,” Aduial corrected, “is still an interminable amount of time to be left in the company of that odious man.” 

“I see you have not taken to Lord Caedmon’s personality,” the Elven King observed. 

“It is a wonder that anyone can ‘take’ to his personality at all,” the Princess retorted. 

“Then I have no doubt that you put him in his place,” Legolas continued smoothly, taking a step towards his companion and running his fingers through a lock of her fiery mane as it fell over her left shoulder. 

“Your charms will not work on me today,” Aduial said coolly, even as she tilted her head to the right and exposed the white column of her ivory neck. 

“I would not dream of being so presumptuous,” Legolas said humbly, resting his other hand on the princess’s slim waist and pulling her closer. Behind them Echuir snorted again, watching the pair with a keen eye. 

“Where did you and Éomer disappear off to anyway?” she asked curiously, the growing relationship between her childhood companion and the King of Rohan not entirely clear in her mind. 

“Éomer wished to show me a place that holds some meaning for him,” Legolas answered somewhat vaguely. 

Aduial waited for her friend to continue but when he did not she let out an exasperated sigh and placed a hand on his forest green tunic. “What are your intentions towards this human?” 

The Princess’s direct question made the Elven King laugh. “Rûnia,” he said with a chuckle. “Never one to beat around the bush as the humans like to say.” 

“There is no point ‘beating around the bush,’” Aduial answered swiftly, “when one’s companion is equally adept at the sport. We would be beating the bush to death before anything of consequence is revealed. Furthermore,” she continued her voice rising slightly, “it is not in our nature to beat bushes. We are Elves!” 

“Indeed,” Legolas agreed with a glint in his eye. 

Aduial glared at him, her annoyance at being left in the tiresome company of Lord Caedmon returning full force. “Éomer?” she prompted, now crossing her arms in a gesture of impatience. 

“Éomer,” the Elven King repeated soberly. 

In truth, the Rohan King had taken him to a place of great meaning. It had been no more than a shady spot of circular trees mirroring a similar rock formation on the ground, reminding Legolas of another crown of trees in fair Lothlórien that also held a special meaning for him, though the trees of Rohan could not compare to the majestic _mellryn_ of the Golden Wood. It had taken a great deal of courage for Éomer to share this place with Legolas and to reveal what had once transpired there. Though the Man had been vague about the details, the Elf had easily read between the lines and understood what had once been offered there, what had been at stake and what had been lost. 

“Is he another conquest for your bed?” Aduial asked bluntly. 

“You make it seem as though I keep score,” Legolas reprimanded with an arched eyebrow. 

Aduial held back the cutting reply that had almost spilled from her lips. She was not being fair to her longtime friend and part-time lover, knowing first hand how thoughtful and discreet Legolas was in all his affairs, be they in the bedroom or not. 

“What I meant to say,” she began again, “is that you have a penchant for taking mortals to your bed that I have never understood. You were even foolish enough to lose your heart to one of them.” 

“It is fortunate then,” Legolas replied, “that I cannot lose what has already been lost.” 

Aduial shook her head and sighed. “They are very different men,” she said. “He is not accustomed to our ways. Are you blind to the constraints of his society?” 

“Every society,” Legolas explained, “is a system of mobility and constraint. What differs from culture to culture is the ratio of that system. Even the most rigid societies must allow for some movement, just as the most liberal cultures still have limits to what is acceptable. Do you not find it interesting,” Legolas queried, dropping his voice slightly, “that what is forbidden openly may pass undetected behind closed doors? After all, there must be a way to escape from the confines that are imposed on the individual by others.” 

“And I suppose,” Aduial responded, a touch of sarcasm lacing her tone, “that you will be the agent of Éomer’s ‘escape?’” 

“The thought had crossed my mind.” 

“You must be careful, Legolas,” Aduial said seriously. “Éomer is a good man, but a wild spirit caged too long will not allow itself to be confined once it is set free. Your actions may do more harm than good.” 

For a moment, a hint of doubt flickered through the Elven King’s clear blue eyes but he brushed it aside and fixed his companion with a penetrating gaze. “And what has been your role in my escapade?” 

“My role?” Aduial repeated innocently. 

“A few nights ago,” Legolas continued, “you knew that I was occupied with the Rohan King, and yet you came to look for me in his study. What were your intentions then?” 

“I intended to remind you of a filthy promise that you had made to me earlier that day,” Aduial said wickedly, “and to see to it that no King of Men was going to prevent you from keeping your word.” 

“A determined princess is a force to be reckoned with,” Legolas conceded with his own sly smile, “but did you know that we had an audience that night?” 

“I was aware of his presence,” Aduial replied off-handedly. 

“And you continued your actions?” 

“Did you honestly expect me to stop?” she asked in surprise. “What good would that have done? You would have been dissatisfied, I would have been dissatisfied and Éomer,” she said, lingering on the Man’s name, “probably would have been the most dissatisfied of all.” 

“Your idea of torture is exquisite,” Legolas praised, “but are you aware that we have an audience now?” 

Aduial smoothed the folds of her gown, turning to her left and discreetly surveying the party that she had departed with lowered eyes. They were still seated on the picnic grounds in small groups, Éomer in between Lothíriel and his third cousin. The Princess of Dol Amroth was the paradigm of patience, suffering through Caedmon’s company with complete grace. The King of Rohan, on the other hand, did not appear to be following their conversation and instead had his eyes focused on the Elven couple who stood in the distance under the shade of a patch of trees where the horses were resting. 

“So it seems,” Aduial answered when she straightened again, aware that Legolas still had his hand on her waist. There was a devious look in her eye as she snaked her arm behind his back and pulled them closer together. “What is your plan of action, my Lord?” 

“Since you do not wish to be my co-conspirator,” Legolas said, now wrapping his arm around Aduial’s waist, “it is only fair to ask how _you_ wish to handle the situation.” 

“That is very generous of you,” Aduial replied. “Despite our audience, or perhaps in spite of our audience,” she said mischievously, “I believe a recompense is in order for abandoning me earlier.” 

“And what kind of recompense do you have in mind?” 

“A kiss,” the Princess said demurely, “will do for now.” 

“Then it is a recompense I gladly pay,” Legolas said, brushing Aduial’s red hair behind the tip of a pointed ear and then tracing its contours until his hand came to rest on the smooth curve of her neck, finally bending down to kiss her.

~*~*~*~

Éomer picked up one of the rolls from the breadbasket and ripped it savagely in half. His cousin’s company was even more tiresome than usual but the King knew that his agitation was not caused by Caedmon alone. Above all, he was annoyed at himself. What had possessed him to show Legolas his old special place? What kind of message would that send the Elf? And now he had just witnessed a particularly affectionate scene between the two Elven nobles. It made his blood boil that they could be so publicly intimate with one another and he . . . took a large bite of his bread and began to chew. He watched as Legolas and Aduial approached their group, sharing in some secret as they walked arm in arm. It was at that moment that Éomer decided he would have to find a way to spend some time with Legolas alone. It was not enough that Aduial would be leaving the following day; he needed to find a way to remove himself from his duties just for a little while. Or he might end up doing something rash.

The afternoon passed uneventfully and once the company felt that their lunch had been sufficiently digested, most of them took to their horses, this time with Caedmon in the lead for some games. Still feeling sullen, Éomer sat out the fun much to Déor’s supreme annoyance while Legolas and Echuir headed what eventually became a pseudo Elvish team. After a while though, Legolas joined his friend on the picnic grounds, letting Echuir roam the fields. The Elven stallion had grown tired of the games without Déor to compete with, although Caedmon’s mount, a highly spirited dark brown gelding with a personality as arrogant as his master’s, proved to be quite fierce in these supposedly harmless games. Legolas left them in the care of Aduial, who was a skilled rider herself, and her equally mischievous gray steed. Smiling as he settled beside his friend, Legolas lay down on the soft grass, folding his arms behind his head and closing his eyes. Éomer glanced at the resting figure beside him and tried to curb his irritation. Even the Elf’s grace was maddening him this afternoon. Whereas a man would have thrown himself down on the ground to rest, Legolas had elegantly stretched himself on the earthen floor, all long limbs and careless grace like a fresh young colt. After a moment’s silence the Elf spoke. 

“The afternoon light will soon fade,” he said, “and it is a three-hour ride back to Edoras. We shall have to depart soon.” 

“I do not wish to return,” Éomer replied through gritted teeth. 

Instead of asking ‘why’ as the Man expected, the Elf propped himself on one arm and said, “And where do you wish to go instead?” 

Truthfully, Éomer had not given a destination much thought, and for a man as orderly and regimented as him that was most unusual. Anywhere, he wanted to say aloud but instead he said, “Would you come with me?” 

Before Legolas could answer, Lothíriel rode up to the pair and said a little breathlessly, “As the diplomatic emissary of the group, I believe it is my place to inform you,” she said looking at the Rohan King, “that things are starting to get a little out of hand.” She glanced behind her where Aduial and Lossendir were attempting to box Caedmon in between them, thus preventing him from being able to maneuver, but Caedmon’s gelding managed to break free and the race was on again. 

“It would be best,” Lothíriel continued, “if you put a stop to things. Not to mention that it is getting rather late,” she added, “and we should probably return to Edoras.” 

“Precisely what I was just saying,” Legolas agreed, standing up and motioning for Lossendir and Aduial to join them. 

Grudgingly, Éomer got to his feet as well and when the group had finally gathered around him he said, “Friends, it has been a most enjoyable afternoon. While I realize that some of you may still be locked in competition,” here he nodded in the direction of the Elven Princess and his cousin, “perhaps a temporary truce is called for? Furthermore, as the Lady Lothíriel has informed me, it is time to head back to Edoras.” Amid the nods and murmurs of assent, the Rohan King’s voice rang out again. “However,” Éomer continued, “Legolas and I shall _not_ be returning with you.” Beside him the Elf did not flinch at this half-expected announcement. “We have decided to surprise Gimli with a visit to the Glittering Caves.” 

“My Lord,” the Captain of the Guard interrupted. “It is still nearly a full day’s journey to the Glittering Caves.” 

“Perhaps on an ordinary steed,” Éomer conceded, “but on our stallions in full flight we would arrive at the Glittering Caves shortly after nightfall.” 

The Captain of the Guard looked unconvinced. He did not doubt the swiftness of the stallions, but believed it would be unwise to let his liege travel to the Glittering Caves unescorted. 

Reading his Captain’s mind, Éomer walked towards him and placed a hand on the neck of his steed. “Heardred,” he said in their own tongue, “these lands are well-protected. Legolas and I will be quite safe. No foul creatures would be able to catch us, and neither would your fine mount be able to keep pace with us. Return to Edoras and see to it that no harm comes to the two Princesses. You may send an escort to the Glittering Caves first thing in the morning to ease your mind.” 

Heardred nodded in acquiescence and though he would have preferred that his liege return to Edoras with him and set out in the morning for the Glittering Caves, he held his tongue. He had seen his lord in this determined manner before and knew that nothing would sway him. 

Éomer then went to Aduial, who was massaging the neck of her gray steed, easing the tense muscles that she found there. 

“Lady Aduial,” he said sincerely, “please forgive my behavior this afternoon and my absence for your departure tomorrow. I hope you have enjoyed your short stay in our land and you will always be welcome to return any time you wish.” 

“Lord Éomer,” Aduial replied with a warm smile, “there is nothing to forgive. You have been the most generous of hosts, reflecting only the best qualities of your people. It is I who should thank you,” she added, “for taking me in so unexpectedly. And I believe,” she continued in a lower, almost conspiratorial tone, “that Legolas will be able to help you in whatever matter was troubling you today.” 

The Man detected an underlying meaning in the Princess’s words that he did not understand and he looked at her strangely as he nodded his head in recognition of her words. 

When everyone was prepared to depart, the two Kings called for their stallions. Déor was the first to appear, restless and eager to be off, not having participated in the afternoon games. But when Echuir did not appear as was expected, Legolas grew uneasy. He let out the haunting whistle that Éomer had heard the night he had first encountered the black stallion and then waited patiently for the familiar sound of pounding hooves. Legolas’ keen eyes scanned the rolling fields until he saw in the distance the Elven stallion galloping towards them from the left plain, and unless he was mistaken, there was a figure on the animal’s back. 

The company watched as the stallion drew near, curious to see who the unknown rider was. As Echuir came to a halt before his Elven master, Lord Caedmon exploded. 

“Wilhelm!” he cried. “Where have you been? And what do you think you are doing with that beast?” 

Legolas did not know the relationship between Caedmon and the young lad who he estimated was between the ages of fifteen and eighteen, but he was immediately aware of something that the Man was oblivious to, and that was Echuir had allowed a complete stranger on his back. 

Wilhelm slid off Echuir’s sleek back and bowed before the nobleman, apologizing as he did so. Caedmon did not appear to be appeased but before he could say anything – Legolas intervened. 

“Who are you?” he asked the young man. 

“My name is Wilhelm, son of Weostan,” the boy replied. 

“He is my squire,” Caedmon added derisively, “who has been neglecting his duties.” 

Wilhelm bowed his head again, but Legolas got the impression that it was not to show his anger disguised as an act of penitence. The Elf ignored the irate Lord and continued to question the young man. 

“How old are you, Wilhelm?” 

“Seventeen.” 

“And how did you come across this stallion?” 

“He approached me,” the boy explained, surprised at his own answer. “I was by the stream refilling the water skins when he came to have a drink. He nudged me with his muzzle as though he wished to show me something. I was not thinking when I mounted him. Please forgive me. I did not mean to steal him.” 

Legolas almost laughed aloud at the thought. As if Echuir would let anyone ‘steal’ him. Caedmon had remained silent during the boy’s explanation, understanding for the first time what the implications of the boy’s words were. He glanced sideways at his cousin who was also looking at the squire with a strange light in his eyes. 

“You are forgiven,” the Elven King told the lad. “Echuir is quite particular when it comes to making friends.” 

“Off with you now,” Caedmon said harshly. “We are returning to Edoras and you have not yet packed.” 

“Yes, my Lord,” Wilhelm said respectfully before running off to collect his belongings. 

Legolas watched the boy go with a thoughtful eye. “An unusual choice, Echuir,” he whispered in their dialect. “Let us see what the boy has to offer.” 

tbc...


	9. Shadows of the Past

True to Éomer’s approximation, the two kings arrived at Aglarond shortly after nightfall. The entrance to the caves was lit with blazing torches and the two riders caused quite a commotion upon their arrival. At first the guards on duty regarded them suspiciously; until they recognized whom their unexpected guests were and then ushered them inside to meet with their lord. Gimli came bustling out to greet them, his beard speckled with drops of ale. Clearly, Legolas and Éomer had interrupted the Dwarf’s evening meal. The Lord of the Glittering Caves was so delighted to see the Elf that he forgot to make his usual disparaging comments and immediately led the two travelers to the dining hall where he and his closest twenty-five family and friends were taking their supper. Places were quickly set for the two Kings at the high table and before they knew it they were surrounded by food, wine and very merry company. 

Legolas would have preferred to wash off the day’s filth and grime rather than eat but he knew that excusing himself at this point would have offended his host, so he sat at the table and delicately picked at what fresh fruits were available. Gimli often complained that he ate like a bird but not once had the Elf told his friend what truly stimulated his appetite. He had only to glance to his right and watch the Horse Lord eating with relish a leg of lamb to know what meal would be in store for him later. Éomer, on the other hand, found himself quite famished at the end of their long ride. He had been too upset to eat well during lunch and now the rich smells of roast lamb and chicken were enticing, not to mention that Gimli’s hospitality was legendary among the Rohirrim. 

The Dwarf watched the two Kings with a curious eye. This visit was most unexpected and he immediately sensed, after ten years of being in close friendship with the Horse Lord, that something was not quite right with the King of the Mark. While he was pleased to see the Elf and was used to Legolas’s mysterious ways, he was not certain if he favored Legolas’s obscure intentions towards the Rohan King. He was not blind to the spell Legolas had cast on Éomer the night before his coronation, nor to the questionable horse trade that had been signed between the two of them soon afterwards. No, Legolas always had an ulterior motive in mind and Gimli suspected that there was more than a stallion and a horse race at stake here. He would have to speak to his old friend before anything regrettable occurred. 

“What brings two fine Kings to Aglarond on this night?” Gimli suddenly asked aloud. 

“Gimli, you always complain that I am too regimented in my ways,” Éomer said after taking a draft of wine. “I thought I would do something spontaneous for a change.” 

“Spontaneous, eh?” the Dwarf repeated suspiciously. “Are you being spontaneous . . . or rash?” 

“Spontaneous,” the Elf announced definitively in the Man’s place, fixing his friend with a firm look. 

“And I suppose this ‘spontaneity’ is your doing, Elf,” Gimli continued, returning Legolas’ firm look with one of his own. The Elf’s eyes twinkled at the Dwarf’s persistence. He could already tell that Gimli would want to have a word with him later. 

“On the contrary,” Éomer replied, completely oblivious to the wordless exchange between the two friends, “this was entirely my decision. Don’t you ever feel the need, Gimli, to simply get away?” 

The Lord of the Glittering Caves was taken aback by the question. Éomer was clearly not himself tonight. “Get away?” he said in a baffled tone. “From this beautiful mine? From the earth and its rich minerals? From my friends and my family? Whatever do you mean?” 

“Why so many questions?” Legolas interrupted. “You’re starting to make us feel unwelcome. What about the legendary Dwarvish hospitality that I’ve heard so much about?” 

Gimli grumbled a few inaudible words in his language before saying loudly in the Common Tongue, “Hospitality. I’ll show you what hospitality is!” Then with a wave of his stout hand, he instructed servants to bring in another round of sumptuous food and wine. 

“Now you’ve done it,” Éomer said quietly to the Elven King. “He won’t let us leave until he’s stuffed us full of lamb, chicken, stew, pie, and whatever else he can place in front of us.” 

“Well,” Legolas said thoughtfully, placing a hand on the Man’s thigh. “The more we eat, the more exercise we shall have to do before being able to sleep.” 

Éomer almost said something in response but thought better of it, smiling to himself foolishly while he took another drink of his wine. Meanwhile, Gimli continued to watch the pair, slightly concerned by these developments.

~*~*~*~

When the meal was concluded a good hour and a half later, a very full King of the Mark and a not so full King of Eryn Lasgalen were shown to their separate rooms. The two had agreed to meet in Gimli’s game room after refreshing themselves so that Éomer could show the Elf one of his favorite games that he had taught the Dwarf. They were, naturally, too full to sleep or so Legolas pretended to be. The Elf took this time to wash, thankful for the basin of warm water that he found in his room and the change of clothes that had been laid out on the bed. He had spent enough time at the Glittering Caves to leave behind a suitable wardrobe just in case he dropped by unprepared, which is precisely what had happened on this occasion.

After changing Legolas undid the plaits in his hair and picked up the comb that lay beside the washbasin. Then he dipped the comb into the water and began to comb through his hair, smoothing out any tangles and knots. He briefly considered re-doing the plaits but then decided against it. It would be good to let Éomer see him with his hair undone, a habit he reserved only for lovers and the closest of friends. Satisfied that he was prepared to meet with the Horse Lord the Elf strode to the door and opened it, only to find the Lord of the Glittering Caves standing before him. 

“A word, if you please,” Gimli said gruffly. 

Legolas looked down at his old friend and stepped aside, allowing Gimli to pass into the room. 

“Your affairs are your affairs,” the Dwarf began. “But Éomer is my friend, as are you,” he added. “I would not like to see two of my dear friends do something they will regret later.” 

“You are speaking in riddles tonight,” Legolas answered. 

“Ignorance does not become you, Legolas,” Gimli said seriously. 

“Then say plainly what you mean.” 

“What are your intentions towards the Horse Lord?” the Dwarf asked bluntly. 

“My intentions,” Legolas repeated. Gimli’s question was disturbingly familiar, as was the thread of this entire conversation. He sighed. “You are the second friend to ask me that question today.” 

“What perceptive friends you have,” Gimli said with a touch of sarcasm. “And did you evade the question earlier as you are doing so now?” 

Legolas smiled and shook his head. “Whatever may pass or may not pass between Éomer and I on this night will be of our own free will. I would not coerce him into doing anything that he would not otherwise offer freely, if that is what you mean.” 

“Your interest in Éomer is not wise,” Gimli said quietly. “He is a good man,” the Dwarf continued, once again repeating Aduial’s words. “But what you take for lust he may mistake for love.” 

“Gimli, your concern is touching,” Legolas said, putting a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “But I think you are exaggerating the situation. His interest is no more than a passing infatuation. He is attracted to difference, to the unknown. You do not give Éomer enough credit.” 

“You give him too much credit,” the Dwarf retorted. 

“He is a sensible man.” 

“And you test the boundaries of his sensibilities!” 

The Elf gave the Dwarf a warning look, saying in a tone that put an end to their conversation, “I see the wisdom in your words and I shall bear them in mind. Now,” he continued in a lighter manner, “can you give me some tips on this mysterious game of Éomer’s?” 

It was Gimli’s turn to shake his head, not entirely convinced that he had gotten through to his stubborn friend but he knew better than to push the matter any further. Éomer _was_ a sensible man but he could not help feeling that Legolas was a greater temptation. Still, he walked his friend to the game room where the Horse Lord was already waiting, freshly changed and leisurely sitting on the rugs that had been thrown on the stone floor. In front of the Man was a low table with a painted board and carved wooden pieces on top of it. This, Legolas presumed, was the game that Éomer had been referring to. 

Gimli would have preferred to stay awhile and act as a chaperone but he could sense that his presence was clearly unwanted. Thus, he bid his friends a good night, giving the Elf one more stern look before leaving them in peace. Legolas returned his attention to the Horse Lord who was now pouring two goblets of wine from a decanter at the side of the table and passed one of the goblets to the Elf. 

“Did Gimli explain the rules of the game on your way here?” Éomer inquired. 

“Not entirely.” Legolas laughed, leaning in slightly as he said, “I asked him for tips. He did mention that it was a very visual game and that any explanation about the rules would best come from you.” 

“Then I shall do my best to oblige,” Éomer said, arranging the pieces on the board. Legolas noticed now that they were all carved images of horses, some with riders on their backs and others without. It took a good fifteen minutes for the Horse Lord to explain the rules and the Elf listened attentively. It was a highly intellectual game and involved a great deal of strategizing. 

“If this is what your people consider a pastime,” Legolas said when Éomer was through, “then it is no wonder that they are such fine battle tacticians.” 

“We are not always so serious,” Éomer chided. “Gimli, for instance, always finds a way to lighten the game.” 

“That is not surprising,” Legolas noted. “There is no other way he would be able to endure such an intellectual pursuit for an extended period of time. Gimli prefers action to words,” he added to make his meaning clear. “Tell me,” he said curiously, “what does Gimli do to ‘lighten the game?’” 

“For each piece that is captured one must drink a shot of hard liquor.” 

Legolas burst out laughing. That sounded just like Gimli, to incorporate alcohol into an otherwise rational game. Each player fielded twenty pieces, which amounted to quite a few shots of hard liquor. 

“Since we are guests of the Lord of the Glittering Caves,” Legolas said mischievously, “should we play by his amended rules?” 

“I see no harm in ‘lightening’ the game,” Éomer admitted, “but I had a rather different penalty in mind.” 

“Oh? What do you think we should do instead?” 

“For each piece that is captured,” Éomer said slowly, “a player should remove an item of clothing. And to the victor,” he added, “go the spoils.” 

This time Legolas did not laugh and he met the Horse Lord’s even gaze. There was no mistaking how this game would end. Aduial and Gimli’s words echoed in his mind together with the image of a mound of trees and stones driven into the earth, but he pushed these matters aside. He did not underestimate their significance, but first they would play. 

And play they did. If Éomer had believed that this game was nothing more than a pretext to seduce the Elf, he was sorely mistaken. Legolas was a quick learner and Éomer soon found himself stripped to the waist before Legolas had even removed a single piece of clothing. The Elf brought such intensity to the contest that the Horse Lord had to lift the level of his own game. Both friends were locked in a battle of strategy, but while Legolas’ eyes remained fixed on the board and his mind focused on predicting the possible maneuvers of his opponent, Éomer would glance up from time to time and note the flicker of torchlight that played in the Elf’s golden hair, he would linger on Legolas’ elegant features, and watch how the Elf would reach for his goblet of wine and take a delicate sip in a single motion without ever breaking his concentration. He longed for the game to end quickly but also knew that Legolas would make him pay for any rash move. Furthermore, pride prevented him from simply letting the Elf win the match. Eventually the game did end, nearly two hours after it began, when Éomer finally managed to corner the Elf’s prized stallion, forcing Legolas to concede. 

“An excellent match,” Éomer praised, truly wondering if this was Legolas’ first encounter with the game. 

“Yes,” Legolas agreed absently, still engrossed in the game’s strategy, retracing in his mind the maneuvers that had led to his defeat to ensure that he would not make the same mistake again. The Elf appeared to have forgotten what the original motive behind the game had been, but Éomer would soon remind him. As the victor, he was entitled to claim the ‘spoils.’ 

While Legolas ran his finger along the carved surface of one of his wooden knights, Éomer stood up clad only in a pair of loose trousers and walked to the other side of the low table, towering before the Elf. Legolas, now aware of the Man’s presence beside him and remembering the nature of their game, turned to face him, legs slightly spread and bent at the knee. He lay down, propping himself on his lower arms in an enticing gesture, waiting to see what the Man would do next. 

Éomer, hands on his hips, appraised the Elf. He could not recall ever having seen Legolas so submissive before. “You are still wearing your leggings,” he observed. 

“So I am,” Legolas replied. “Will you assist me with them?” 

Wordlessly, Éomer bent down and grasped the smooth material at the Elf’s waist as Legolas lifted his hips, allowing the Man to pull off the leggings in one fluid motion. It was a glorious sight to see the Elf naked before him, and Legolas as Éomer remembered from previous experience, was completely unselfconscious about his nudity, as though lying on the soft rugs on the floor of a room in the Glittering Caves waiting to be touched by the King of the Mark were perfectly natural to him. Then Éomer settled in between the Elf’s legs, Legolas spreading them further apart to accommodate the Man. Neither of them spoke and Éomer made no further move to touch the Elf. They simply stayed in their positions, Éomer’s eyes traveling over the Elf’s body as though he were mapping out in advance the path that his hands, his lips and his tongue would take. Legolas tilted his head to the right, watching the Man drink in the sight of him. He hoped that tonight would be more than just a visual feast, and when he deemed that the Man had admired him for long enough, he reached out with his right hand and beckoned for Éomer to come closer. The Horse Lord accepted the invitation and as he moved over the Elf’s body, Legolas rose to meet him, his right hand cupping the Man’s bearded cheek and pressing their lips together. 

The kiss was slow and sensual, belying the rapid beating of the Man’s heart and the nervous anticipation that he managed to contain. Legolas took control of the kiss, the taste of the wine on Éomer’s tongue mingling with the sweetness in his own mouth. For all of Éomer’s boldness, the Elf could sense his uncertainty and sought to reassure him. He wrapped his arms around Éomer’s broad back and pulled him closer, even as he could feel the Man’s hand snake up his own while his other hand ran through the Elf’s silken hair. They broke for air and Éomer kissed the Elf’s jaw line, working his way down Legolas’ neck to the little hollow in the Elf’s collar bone, his kisses traveling ever lower as his hands moved down the side of Legolas’ body. 

Legolas lay back down on the rugged surface and closed his eyes, surrendering himself to the Horse Lord’s touch. He could feel Éomer’s hand on his chest now, following the trail left by the Man’s kisses and licks, lingering over his firm abdomen. Then there was a pause in their actions and the kisses stopped. Éomer was no longer touching him and Legolas knew what the Man was contemplating. He did not open his eyes or make any move to encourage the Horse Lord, knowing that Éomer would have to be the instigator of whatever would pass between them on this night. Instead, he waited. 

And then, he felt it. A ghost of a kiss on the tip of his arousal; delicate and light as a feather. The touch returned. Firmer now but still gentle. A tongue ventured out to tease the slit at the head of the Elf’s shaft, coaxing from it a tiny drop of pearlescent fluid. Éomer licked it. Sweet, as he knew all along it would be. The taste emboldened him, and the Man thought fleetingly that it was some sort of elixir that would give him new life. He licked the underside of the Elf’s shaft from base to tip causing Legolas to inadvertently shiver in delight. There was no way the Man could have known that the underside was the most sensitive part of the Elf’s member. Then Éomer pressed his palms against the Elf’s inner thighs, spreading and holding them apart before diving down again. He began by suckling at the tip, each motion of his head and tongue allowing him to take the Elf deeper in. Legolas began to rise to meet the Man’s rhythm, but the pressure of Éomer hands on his thighs prevented him from thrusting into the Man’s mouth. Éomer had never done this before, but judging from the sweet moans that the Elf was making, he was a quick learner. 

Legolas was thinking precisely the same thing, as much as thought was possible under the circumstances. Éomer was rapidly taking him to his peak and he purposely controlled his breathing to prolong the moment, reaching down in between his legs to run his hands through the Man’s hair in an attempt to slow his actions. Éomer understood the unspoken request as long fingers threaded through his hair, penetrating deep enough to massage the scalp beneath. As Legolas felt the wavy strands slide through his fingers, he marveled at their texture. They felt familiar to him, as did the affair that was taking place. They reminded him of the first time he had let an inexperienced Man pleasure him in this way and his eyes flew open. 

That had been unwise, as had been many of his decisions regarding that Man in subsequent years. Yet the Elf would not have changed anything, and while he was certain that he would not repeat his mistakes, the momentary break from his current situation had been enough for Gimli and Aduial’s words to return to him. What was he doing with the Horse Lord? If the warnings of his friends had not been enough to plant the seeds of doubt in his mind, then his experience with Éomer in a patch of circular trees and rocks in the Éadig Fields earlier that day had certainly been. If he was no longer certain about his intentions towards the Horse Lord, then he felt that Éomer’s underlying motives for his current actions were completely veiled from him. They were both doing this for the wrong reasons. 

The Elf’s grip in the Man’s hair grew harder, almost painful in its intensity as Legolas tried to coax Éomer away from his task. He whispered the Man’s name as he pulled on his hair one last time and Éomer released him, looking up in a mixture of concern and worry. 

“Am I doing something wrong?” the Horse Lord asked. 

“No,” Legolas assured him. “Far from it. You have a very talented mouth, one that I wish to taste again.” Saying so, the Elf lifted himself off the floor once more and pulled the Horse Lord into another kiss, one that Éomer responded to enthusiastically. 

Legolas was sitting up now, his hands still tangled in the Man’s hair. This time he followed Éomer’s lead. He was looking for something in their kiss, a hint of desperation masked by eagerness and willingness to be with the Elf, and he detected it in the sweep of the Man’s hand across his back, in the way Éomer paused only for a fraction of a second to draw breath before seeking his mouth again. An unquenchable need to be close to the Elf radiated off the Man in waves and Legolas knew he would have to find its source. 

With his right arm around the Man’s shoulders to maintain their bodily contact, the Elf paused and reached for his goblet of wine that stood at the edge of the table. 

“I think,” he said, taking a delicate sip, “that we should take things slowly.” 

Éomer hid his surprise well as Legolas offered him the goblet and he took a drink of the wine. It had taken them nearly two hours to undress; he did not know how much slower he could possibly go. Then again, the Man reasoned, the perception of slowness and patience to one who had eternity before him would be very different from his own. 

“Very well,” he agreed, no longer certain how to proceed. 

Legolas poured more wine from the decanter into the goblet as Éomer held it, finally placing the decanter back on the table and taking the goblet from the Man. He took a long draught from the wine, keeping the liquid in his mouth as he offered the Man a wine-filled kiss. Éomer accepted, the wine passing from Legolas into him as their tongues danced around the rich liquid. Then the Elf proceeded to pour small amounts of wine on the Man’s shoulders and chest, quickly following his actions with his tongue, licking and sucking the substance off Éomer’s body, lingering over his collar bone and a peaked nipple, pausing to place a tender bite on his muscular shoulder. Éomer sighed contentedly in response. If this was Legolas’ idea of ‘taking things slowly,’ he would be more than willing to comply. 

But the Elf had other ideas in mind, and as he traced the Man’s earlobe with his tongue he whispered, “Éomer, why did you bring me to that special place at the Éadig Fields today?” 

The Horse Lord stiffened at the Elf’s words but did not pull away, instead resting his head on Legolas’ shoulder and wrapping his arms tightly around the slender body. 

“I wished to share it with you,” he answered quietly. 

“And have you ‘shared’ this place with anyone else?” 

“No,” Éomer said truthfully. 

“I am very honored,” Legolas said sincerely, “but I cannot help feeling that unfinished matters lay between you and the one you used to meet there. Distance and time does nothing to still a heart burdened by unrest and regret.” 

Éomer said nothing but a lump caught in his throat that he had difficulty swallowing. 

“Your cousin loved you deeply,” Legolas continued, running his hands tenderly against the Man’s back, “more deeply than he should have. And you could not return that love.” 

“It would have been wrong,” Éomer whispered. 

“Perhaps,” Legolas conceded, gently pulling away to look into the Man’s eyes. He brushed away the unruly locks and then held the Man’s face in both his hands as he said, “I am not Théodred. I cannot return to you what has been lost, nor do I offer what he once did. Do you understand this?” 

“That is not what I ask,” Éomer exclaimed, knowing as soon as the words left his mouth that this was precisely what he secretly desired. Legolas’ interest in him was more than a means of escape from the confines of his world; it was a return to a time when he had been ignorant and young, when his cousin’s confession had both shocked and thrilled him. But he had brushed Théodred aside and had crushed any ounce of feeling that had threatened to exceed the boundaries of brotherly love. Théodred had been his brother and his comrade but he could never have been his lover. The younger man had accepted his cousin’s refusal more graciously than Éomer had deserved, and though they had lived together for many years in companionship and friendship, a tension had pervaded their relationship that none could detect, not even Éowyn, with whom Éomer was the closest to in the world. His cousin’s death had left a void in his heart that had remained untouched until Legolas had lit a tiny flame the night before the Elven King’s coronation, but Éomer had chosen not to acknowledge it. 

Disturbed by the implications of their conversation, Éomer made to pull away but   
unbeknownst to him Legolas had wrapped his long legs around the Man while he was speaking, and now the Horse Lord found himself trapped in the Elf’s strong embrace. 

“Release me,” he ordered, all thoughts of lust and desire far from his mind. 

Legolas did not heed the command, and his silence and inaction infuriated the Man. “You are a strange creature,” Éomer said, looking at the Elf with new eyes. “You have pursued me since that night in Eryn Lasgalen. You have teased and tempted me. Now that I come to you willingly, you reject my advances.” 

The Elf felt a pang in his heart at the confusion and anger written on the Horse Lord’s noble face. This was his doing. 

“I desire you greatly, Éomer,” Legolas said, reaching up to touch the Man’s brow, but the Horse Lord flinched and looked away. “And it was never my intention to turn you away tonight.” 

“Release me,” Éomer said again, his tone quieter and filled with resignation. 

Legolas let out a heavy sigh and unwrapped his legs from around the Man’s waist. But before the Horse Lord could rise, the Elf quickly said, “What you offer must be offered freely with no illusions of the past. I am not your future but nor am I a shadow by which you may ease your guilt. I am the Present, Éomer. A moment that may be prolonged and sustained in and of itself, to be enjoyed and cherished in your memory ever more. When you can see that, we may try again if you so desire.” 

The Rohan King said nothing but walked to the other side of the table where his clothes were scattered on the rugs and began to dress. It was not until he had finished dressing and headed to the door that he said with his back to the Elf: “I am not like you. My race does not remain unchanging through the seasons, remaining outside of Time and watching it flow. We move within its stream, our actions linked in a causal chain. You have changed my course, Legolas. And I know not where to go from here.” 

The words hung heavy in the air, long after the Man had departed and Legolas felt the weight of their responsibility as he sat in the silent room, fingering the image of a carved stallion on top of a painted board. 

tbc...


	10. Lessons from a Squire

Breakfast the following morning was a strained affair. The tension was palpable between the two Kings and Gimli wondered whether it would have been better if he had not said anything at all to his Elven friend the night before. Éomer was subdued, chewing and swallowing his food mechanically, while Legolas restlessly picked at an occasional berry, his spirits visibly dampened. Gimli shook his head. Men and Elves were both troublesome races. Why could they not be more like Dwarves and throw themselves into their work? They were too easily distracted; unable to focus with a singleness of purpose. If only they could appreciate the beauty and passion of mining for example, their lives would be so much simpler. Well, Gimli thought to himself, he would do his best to see to it that his companions were diverted from their personal affairs. 

It was in this way that Gimli showed his two friends the new work that was being done in the Glittering Caves. Legolas, who showed an interest in the refining procedure, stayed with the miners while Gimli brought Éomer to the armory to inspect Rohan’s latest order of helmets and shields. The Horse Lord never ceased to be amazed by the fine craftsmanship of the Dwarves and he praised Gimli and his kindred for it. 

By late morning, another party arrived unexpectedly at the entrance of Aglarond. It was Heardred, accompanied by a suitable escort for the King of Rohan. The Captain of the Guard had been so concerned about his liege’s safety that he had only taken two hours rest upon arriving at Edoras before setting out again with a team of riders. Lossendir, and two other Elven guards, were also among the group. The party had ridden all throughout the night in order to reach the Glittering Caves before noon, and the Men and Elves, as well as their steeds were quite tired. 

Éomer was not that surprised to see his Captain and he greeted him warmly. Then he bade the group to rest for the remainder of the day. It would not do to return to Edoras with their horses unnourished and fatigued. At some point during the day, Legolas and the other Elves disappeared and though the Horse Lord rebuked himself for it, he could not help but feel the Elf’s absence. Gimli, too, was aware of Legolas’ absence but knew better than to seek his friend out when Legolas was in this mood. He would not be able to find the Elf even if he turned over every rock in Aglarond. 

The Dwarf, however, managed to corner the Elf in the late afternoon while Legolas was grooming Echuir. Gimli had always been distrustful of any beast that walked on more than two legs and horses were certainly no exception. Still, he would not let that deter him today and he approached the pair with purposeful steps, casting a wary eye on the black stallion from time to time. Echuir seemed tame enough under Legolas’ soothing touch. 

“Is this the Elvish stallion that’s been causing all the fuss?” Gimli asked, pausing at what he thought was a safe distance. 

“That would be Echuir,” Legolas agreed, running the large body brush down Echuir’s elegant neck. 

“Have you had any luck finding a rider for him?” 

“‘Luck’ would be the opportune word,” Legolas said, now working on Echuir’s shoulder. “We held trial runs this past week and had only one partially successful candidate.” 

“That does not sound promising.” 

“No,” Legolas replied, “but yesterday afternoon Echuir surprised us all by allowing the most unexpected rider on his back.” 

“And who is this rider?” 

“A lad named Wilhelm, son of Weostan. He is a squire,” the Elf added. 

“A squire!” Gimli laughed. “Are you seriously suggesting that Éomer is going to allow a squire to represent his house in the greatest horse race of Middle-earth?” 

“It is more complicated than that,” Legolas admitted. “Wilhelm is not just any squire. He is the squire of Lord Caedmon.” 

“Lord Caedmon,” Gimli grunted, his tone leaving no doubt that he had encountered the Man before and the experience had been an unpleasant one. “That is unfortunate. How do you plan to go about training the squire of the King’s enemy?” 

“‘Enemy’ is too harsh a description,” the Elf said charitably, turning around to face the Dwarf. “He is Éomer’s third cousin, after all.” 

“It is hard to believe they are related by blood,” Gimli commented. 

Legolas could not have agreed more and remained silent. 

“So,” the Dwarf prompted. “What is your plan?” 

“I have yet to discuss it with Éomer,” Legolas said slowly, “but we must look at the rules of the Rhovanion to the letter. They have been amended over the years, and I believe that anyone may enter the competition now, even strangers from distant lands. But Wilhelm’s case is special. As Caedmon’s squire he would be expected to represent Caedmon’s house, should he enter the Rhovanion at all. There must be some way,” the Elf continued thoughtfully, “to disengage him from Caedmon’s service so that he may represent the House of Eorl. In the meantime, I will ask Éomer if he may spend some time at Meduseld so that I may train him with Echuir.” 

“How long do you anticipate this training will take?” 

“That I cannot say for certain,” the Elf replied. “It depends largely on Echuir,” he said, looking back at the stallion. Echuir met his master’s gaze, shaking his head at the sound of his name as if to imply that he wouldn’t be the source of any difficulty. “We shall see,” Legolas told the stallion quietly in his tongue. 

“And what about Éomer?” Gimli said loudly, competing for his friend’s attention. Better a stallion than a tree, the Dwarf could not help but muse to himself. 

“What about Éomer?” Legolas repeated dryly, dipping under the horse’s neck to begin grooming Echuir’s other side. 

“What are your plans regarding him?” 

“I thought you made it quite clear last night what my plans should _not_ be,” the Elf emphasized. “I did listen to your wise words. Has the outcome not been what you expected?” 

“I think,” Gimli said, “that perhaps you could have handled the situation better.” 

The Elf’s heavy silence indicated to the Dwarf that Legolas agreed with his assessment. 

“What shall you do now?” Gimli persisted. 

“Nothing,” Legolas replied, a little too off-handedly for the Dwarf’s liking. “We shall continue as we did before – as friends, comrades and allies.” 

“You are deceiving yourself if you truly believe that is the case.” 

“Time,” the Elf assured his friend, “will see to it that we make amends.” 

“Time,” the Dwarf spat. “The Eldar have a tendency to forget that other races are not ‘gifted’ with as much time as they are. Furthermore,” Gimli continued in a reproving tone, “for one who has always believed in guiding one’s destiny through action, it is most unlike you to leave matters in the care of Time.” 

“Time may be a valuable ally, Gimli,” Legolas said softly. 

“An ally,” Gimli repeated, “is merely one who aids. _You_ will have to do the bulk of the work.”

~*~*~*~

The company returned to Edoras the following morning. Legolas immediately set the tone for a more formal relationship between himself and the Horse Lord by inquiring about the specific regulations of the Rhovanion. Éomer followed the Elven King’s lead, not once mentioning the failed encounter at the Glittering Caves. Together the two brainstormed ways to bring Wilhelm to Edoras under a convincing pretext and, if Echuir was truly agreeable to the young squire, they would find a way to disengage him from Caedmon’s service. But first, they had to bring the boy and the horse together again.

It was in this way that a summons was sent out to all the nobles houses of Rohan requesting that the squires of the various Lords be sent to Edoras for a new training program that involved not only the duties commonly associated with their position, but also new fighting techniques and etiquette learned from their Elvish allies in order to promote greater cultural and social awareness between the two kingdoms. Caedmon, secretly suspecting that there was more to this endeavor than met the eye, could not find anything out of the ordinary about the summons. Moreover, he was not about to let his house be outdone by any of the other noble houses. Thus, he packed Wilhelm off to Edoras along with the other squires to be taught these ‘new’ ways. 

There was, in fact, a new training program hurriedly put together, but remarkably efficient nonetheless, by the combined expertise and experience of both Kings. The program would be administered by Heardred, the Captain of Rohan’s Royal Guard, together with his Elven counterpart, Lossendir, and would take approximately one month. Wilhelm, naturally, was to take part in the program, but he was also to receive additional training from none other than the Elven King himself. This was made abundantly clear to him the night of his arrival when he was requested to meet with Legolas in the royal stables after his evening meal, where Echuir on this occasion had chosen to stay. 

The boy approached the stables quietly, but Legolas detected his footsteps before Wilhelm had even entered the wide hallway. Echuir neighed and pointed in the direction of the entrance. “Patience,” Legolas told his steed, running his hand down Echuir’s neck. 

Wilhelm walked down the length of the spacious stables. He could see the Elf perched on the topmost railing of Echuir’s stall at the far end, the black stallion’s head hanging over the side, scrutinizing the lad. Wilhelm had never encountered a horse with such presence before, with the exception of Déor, but that was to be expected from the Lord of the Mearas. His steps slowed as he drew near almost coming to a halt, but a word of encouragement from the Elven King urged him onwards. 

“Come nearer,” Legolas said softly, but his musical voice resonated around the stables with the force of a command. 

Wilhelm stopped before the pair and bowed respectfully, a bow meant just as much for Echuir as for Legolas. 

“Wilhelm,” Legolas said. 

“Yes, my Lord?” 

“It is a good, strong name,” the Elf continued. “Do you often go by it or is there another name that you prefer to be called?” 

“Lord Caedmon always calls me Wilhelm, as do most other people.” He hesitated for a moment before continuing. He could feel the weight of the Elf’s gaze, and though Legolas was dressed in plain riding clothes, Wilhelm sensed the otherworldly presence of an ancient being. He would not have been surprised in the least if the Elf could read his mind. “But my friends often call me Wulf,” he finished. “They say I have earned the nickname for my bold and reckless ways.” 

“Wulf,” Legolas said with a smile. “I like that.” 

Echuir also nodded his head, giving the name his seal of approval. 

“Wulf, I believe you have already met Echuir,” Legolas said, once again running his hand down the stallion’s long neck. 

“Yes, my Lord.” 

“Echuir has taken a liking to you,” the Elven King continued, “and as I mentioned at the Éadig Fields, he does not make friends easily. I would like you to spend more time with him and get to know him. Would you be agreeable to that?” 

The boy’s eyes lit up. _Who would not be agreeable to that?_ he wondered to himself. He had hoped to be able to see Echuir again but this was more than he had ever dreamed of. 

“I would be most agreeable,” he said calmly, managing to rein in his excitement. 

“Very well,” Legolas said, leaping off the railing and opening the door to Echuir’s stall. “Then we shall begin tonight.” 

Echuir stepped out of his stall regally and the Elf mounted him. For a moment Wilhelm was confused, until he realized that the Elven King intended to ride the stallion bareback and without a bridle, just as he had done that day at the Éadig Fields. Legolas held out a hand to the young man and Wilhelm grasped it, sliding in behind the Elven King. 

“ _Noro!_ ” Legolas called, just as Wilhelm managed to get a grip around his waist. 

The squire was thrilled as Echuir leapt into the air with his first stride and then thundered out of the royal stables.

~*~*~*~

Wilhelm fell into a routine after that first night. During the day, he remained with the other squires and participated in the training program that he had been originally asked to attend. But at night, he met with the Elven King and trained with Echuir. Sometimes Wilhelm would mysteriously disappear during the allocated breaks from the daily training program, but he would always reappear when he was called for. He also began spending additional time with Lossendir, whom the young man had taken an immediate liking to. The Elven Captain began teaching the squire basic Sindarin so that Wilhelm would be able to better communicate with Echuir. Among all the squires under the care of both Captains, it was Wilhelm who felt most at home among the Elves. The young man had fallen in love with the Elvish culture and wished to learn all that he could about it.

The days flew by quickly and it was only in the third week of the training program nearing the end of June that Éomer realized that Legolas would have to leave soon. Although the Elf had not announced his formal departure, it was understood that he would leave once Echuir and Wilhelm were settled. Now that the horse and the rider were accustomed to each other, training and the building of stamina for the Rhovanion would commence in earnest. Together, the two Kings had worked out a ploy to bring Wilhelm under the service of Heardred. Éomer would write a letter to his cousin informing Caedmon that Wilhelm had shown the most promise and skill among all the squires – a statement that was true enough – and that he wished the young man to enroll in the service of the Royal Guard. The boy’s potential was great, and it was conceivable that he would work his way through the ranks to become one of the King’s most trusted captains. In exchange for parting with his squire, Éomer would send the most promising and talented of the trainees from his own house for Caedmon’s inspection. 

Caedmon was not pleased when he received this letter from his cousin. His suspicions were immediately raised again and though he was not particularly fond of his headstrong and oftentimes disobedient squire, he was not blind to the boy’s potential. There was an underlying motive behind these messages but Caedmon was not astute enough to put two and two together. Nevertheless, he agreed to Éomer’s request, not only because his cousin was the King and he did not wish to displease his liege, but also because the Man knew that he held the boy’s loyalty in other ways. 

By contrast, Éomer was delighted that the scheme he had concocted with the Elf had proven to be such a success. He immediately left his study to look for the Elven King after reading Caedmon’s reply, the letter still in his hand. As he went in search of the Elf, his determined steps deliberately slowed and he wondered what exactly he would say when he found Legolas. There was more he wished to discuss than the success of their plans. The last words Legolas had spoken to him that night at the Glittering Caves often found their way into his thoughts when he was alone. Though Legolas had made no further move to entice or tempt the Rohan King, and had done his best to steer their relationship along the steady path of friendship, Éomer craved more. 

_We may try again, if you so desire._

Desire. Yes, he desired the Elf greatly but he was a coward. He could not bring himself to speak to Legolas, nor for that matter, let his actions speak for him. Legolas also appeared to be deterring him from his goal, dictating the tone and boundaries of their relationship since that night and Éomer simply followed. Occasionally, the Man suspected the Elf of a keen sixth sense, cutting the Horse Lord off before Éomer could even broach the subject. It was frustrating. But what was more frustrating was the knowledge that the Elf would soon leave and these unfinished matters would lay between them. He could not afford to let that happen. 

It was in this frame of mind that the King of Rohan approached the royal stables where he had been informed that the Elven King had been seen last. He spotted two golden heads at the end of the wide hallway and the slightly smaller form of Wilhelm. The three were standing by Echuir’s vacant stall and Éomer immediately sensed that something was amiss, judging by the penitent way the boy bowed his head and the look of shame that was written on the other person’s face, whom Éomer soon recognized as Lossendir, the Captain of Legolas’ Royal Guard. When Legolas turned to face the Rohan King, the Horse Lord was taken aback by the fire that burned in the Elf’s blue eyes and the anger that marred his usually fair features. 

“What is happening here?” Éomer asked when he reached the group. 

The Elven King cast a stern glance at the pair before saying to the Horse Lord, “I think it is best if you hear what has transpired from Wilhelm. I am not yet done speaking with my captain,” Legolas said, fixing Lossendir with a grim look. “But when I am through, we must also talk.” 

Legolas’s tone left no room argument and Éomer merely nodded his head in agreement, his eyes never leaving the boy as Legolas and Lossendir passed by him and made their way out of the stables.

~*~*~*~

Legolas stopped walking when the two Elves were outside the stables but he remained silent, much to Lossendir’s distress. He would have preferred a severe tongue lashing to this ominous silence from his lord.

“May I speak?” the Captain said at last, in a quiet and contrite tone. 

“Speak!” Legolas commanded angrily, his back to the other Elf. 

“I should never have let that happen,” Lossendir immediately said. “I have no excuse for my behavior, and I am truly sorry that it occurred. If I could go back and erase the incident, I would do so gladly and I would sing to Elbereth to give me strength. I am deserving of whatever punishment you deem fit, my Lord.” 

“Is this the first time?” 

The silence that met the Elven King’s question made Legolas turn around in exasperation. 

“Lossendir,” Legolas said severely, “he is but a child! Even measured in the years of men he has not yet reached his majority. What were you thinking? You know better than this! We are not in our realm. Rohan’s laws are rigid. Should this incident be discovered, you would be persecuted for it, and our entire training program would be brought to disgrace and ruin. Even if we were in Greenwood,” Legolas continued in a quieter but no less harsh a tone, “this kind of behavior would be unacceptable.” 

Lossendir bowed his head, the shame of his actions almost overwhelming him. “Yes, my Lord,” he whispered. 

Legolas sighed. He had not anticipated this kind of complication and it worried him. 

“You are more than my most trusted Captain, Lossendir,” the Elven King said after a moment’s silence. “You are my friend. But your lack of self-discipline in this matter appalls me, and you have done much to damage my faith in you. I will speak to Éomer now on your behalf, but you must remember that we are in his land and we will abide by his final decision.” 

Lossendir nodded, his throat too dry to speak. 

“In the meantime,” Legolas continued, “I order you to stay away from that boy. Assign him to another guard for the remainder of the program, and speak to no one of this matter. Is that clear?” 

Lossendir nodded again, head still bowed. 

“You are dismissed,” Legolas said. But before the Captain could turn away, the Elven King momentarily grasped his forearm in a comforting gesture. “Take heart,” Legolas said softly. “The King of Rohan is a fair and just ruler.”

~*~*~*~

Legolas had left the fair and just ruler of the Riddermark standing before a nervous squire in the royal stables. Wilhelm shifted uneasily from one foot to the other. This time he had managed to outdo his own reputation for ‘bold and reckless behavior.’ Although Lossendir had an equal share of blame in the matter, he would not shirk from whatever punishment was brought upon him, nor would he play the role of an innocent youth who had been taken advantage of. Oh, no. A child he must have seemed to the ancient eyes of the Eldar, but he had known all along what he was doing. Furthermore, he had been the instigator of the affair and no one could have been more surprised than he when the golden-haired Captain had returned his affections. He thought now of the shame and disgrace brought upon the Elven Captain and it pained him. Lossendir had so much more to lose than he did. They had both been very foolish and had acted without weighing the consequences of discovery. There had to be a way that he could take the bulk of the blame. He was still deep in thought when his liege addressed him.

“Wilhelm,” Éomer said gravely, “will you tell me what has happened here?” 

Suddenly faced with the prospect of confessing his desires to the King made the blood drain from the boy’s face. It was forbidden and unnatural to be attracted to one’s own sex. Perhaps some leniency would be granted him for dallying with an Elf instead of one of his own kind. Then the lad had a startling thought. Perhaps his punishment would be _more_ severe precisely because he had dallied with an Elf instead of one of his own kind. Elves were now seldom seen in Middle-earth, and had often become the source of myth and legend. They were beings to be revered and held in the highest esteem, not to be lusted after or to fill one’s lascivious dreams. What audacity had possessed him to pursue the Elf in that fashion? 

“Wilhelm!” Éomer said sharply when the boy did not answer. 

“I’m sorry, my Lord,” Wilhelm immediately said. “It is difficult to find the words to explain the situation.” 

The King of Rohan crossed his arms and gave the boy a warning look. His patience was wearing thin. Éomer disliked being kept in the dark, especially regarding affairs that took place under his very roof. 

Wilhelm cleared his throat before speaking. His voice remained steady, even as his heart threatened to burst from his chest. 

“Lossendir has been in charge of the majority of my training since I began the program,” Wilhelm explained. “On the side, he has also been teaching me basic Sindarin to help me communicate better with Echuir. We have been spending a great deal of time together and our friendship has grown rapidly.” Here the boy paused and looked at the King with an expression akin to fear in his eyes. 

“Go on,” Éomer prodded. 

Wilhelm’s throat had become very dry. “Well,” he stammered, “just recently this friendship has…uh …exceeded the boundaries …of…uh …” The squire searched for the right phrase to soothe the blow of his confession, “. . . what would be considered appropriate behavior,” he said at last. 

“I see,” Éomer said heavily. And he did see. In fact, the Man had never seen so clearly in his life. 

“My Lord,” Wilhelm quickly interrupted, recovering his wits somewhat. “I am more to blame for this situation than Lossendir. It is I who showed an interest and pursued him. It is I who made the first move. Though I make no excuses for his own behavior, I wish to make it clear that…” he trailed off. What was he trying to say? That this wasn’t a youthful infatuation? That he was afraid that he was falling in love? That he would do anything for the Elven Captain at this point? 

“I have heard enough,” Éomer stated. 

“No, my Lord!” Wilhelm cried. “I will gladly take any punishment that you see fit, but Lossendir…” 

“Shall also have to answer for his actions,” the Rohan King finished off. 

The boy’s face fell. They were in dire trouble. 

But then the King approached the lad and placed a hand on his shoulder. “You must end this,” he said seriously. “It should never have begun. Learn from this experience, Wilhelm, as bitter as it may be.” Éomer paused and looked thoughtfully at the young man, wondering if he should continue. “In the future,” he said after a while, “if your predilections remain as they are, you must show greater discretion in your affairs.” 

Wilhelm looked at his King in wonder, trying to comprehend these words of advice. But before he could respond, Éomer dropped his hand from the boy’s shoulder and his face grew stern. 

“Do not mistake my words,” he said. “You will be punished for your actions, but I am yet to determine the gravity of your punishment. I must confer with King Legolas first. Go now. Act as though nothing has happened, but make sure you stay away from the Elven Captain.” 

tbc…


	11. Living in the Present

Éomer lay face down on his wide bed, his right arm dangling over the bed’s side. A warm summer breeze blew through his spacious bedchamber, lightly ghosting over his skin and intertwining with another delicate touch that ran up and down his back, finally traveling lower, lingering over the cleft of his cheeks before passing to the inside of his thighs; up and down, up and down, gently encouraging the Man to spread his legs. He felt a feather of a kiss on his left shoulder blade and the silken strands of his lover’s hair as it fell on his back. The Man wondered if he was still caught within a dream, as the events of the entire day had taken on a dreamlike quality in his mind. How had he come to be in this room with this beautiful being by his side? 

After his discussion with Wilhelm earlier that day, he had turned around to see Legolas waiting for him at the entrance to the royal stables, his golden hair caught in the light of the sun, crowning the Elf in a halo of white fire. Wilhelm had walked before him, bowing his head as he had passed by the Elf. Legolas had said nothing but the weight of his gaze would have been enough to make a lesser man cower in fear. But Éomer had not been afraid as he had stood in front of the Elf’s silent wrath. 

“There are matters that we need to discuss,” the Horse Lord had begun, “but first, I feel that a ride would clear my mind. What say you?” 

Legolas’ face had remained impassive but he had nodded his head and within minutes the two Kings had left Edoras without word or warning to their subjects about their sudden departure. The two stallions had flown over the plains, sensing that their masters were troubled and wished to be as far away from the city as possible. Though Éomer had given no hint as to their destination, it became quite clear to the Elf where they were headed soon enough. The speed of their unhindered steeds saw that they arrived at the Éadig Fields in a third of the time of their previous journey. The horses had slowed to a trot as they had reached the fields, and Éomer had steered them towards the familiar circular pattern of trees that they had visited once before. 

As soon as Legolas had dismounted, he had been pinned by the Horse Lord against a tree and caught in a bruising kiss. Though he had made no move to resist, neither did his passive response encourage the Man, but Éomer had not been deterred. The Rohan King had ended the kiss, looking straight into Legolas’ eyes as he had said: 

“I understand now the value of your words. It has taken the foolish actions of an impetuous young squire, aspiring for one beyond his reach yet attempting nonetheless, to make me see. I must seize the moment. I must live for the present. Though you may think otherwise, for I have brought you to this place once again, it is only so that I may lay the past to rest and set my mind at ease. Legolas, will you share this moment with me?” 

The Elf had tilted his head to the right as though judging the sincerity of the Horse Lord’s words, gripping Éomer with a sudden fear that Legolas would surely refuse him again. The Man had stepped away, releasing the Elf’s wrists that he had pinned by Legolas’ side. Once free, the Elf had immediately grasped Éomer’s left hand and pulled the Man in again, while with his other hand he had reached up to touch Éomer’s bearded cheek. 

“You are also a foolish Man,” Legolas had whispered before bringing their lips together. 

The kiss had burned with the intensity of unspent passion as hands had glided over their clothed bodies. Éomer had managed to slip under the Elf’s forest green jerkin and silver tunic, but Legolas’ deft fingers had immediately gone to the Man’s growing arousal, undoing the laces of Éomer’s constricting breeches and slipping his hand inside. Taking his cue from the Elf, Éomer had traveled lower, feeling the curve of Legolas’ spine as he had passed by the Elf’s lower back, finally cupping firm cheeks in his hands as he had molded their lower bodies together. 

Their tongues had continued to tangle; Éomer could not get enough of Legolas’ sweet taste, but every now and then a moan would escape him as the Elf worked to bring him to complete hardness. While one hand had continued to stroke the Man’s hardening shaft, Legolas’ other hand had not remained idle; searching in the inner breast pocket of his jerkin for something he always kept there – a vial of weapons’ oil. Upon finding it the Elf had stopped his ministrations, much to the Horse Lord’s dismay, until Legolas had lifted the vial of oil for Éomer’s inspection. They had never gone so far before and Legolas was implicitly asking the Man if he was sure he wanted to continue. 

Éomer had nodded his head and before he knew it, Legolas had swept him into another kiss, distracting him as the Elf easily stripped him to his waist, tugging the Man’s loosened breeches until they had fallen to Éomer’s knees. Then Legolas had uncapped the vial and had poured a healthy amount of the liquid onto his hands, rubbing them together before resuming his ministrations on the Man’s aching shaft. 

Éomer had sighed and had let his head rest on Legolas’ shoulder, inhaling the fresh pine scent of the Elf’s that he had come to miss. He had been aware at that point that Legolas was still wearing too much clothing and he had set about unfastening the buckles of the straps of the Elf’s long, white knives. The weapons had fallen to the ground, followed by the Elf’s forest green leggings. Legolas had already conveniently kicked off his light, leather boots. Éomer’s hand had traced over the Elf’s hip before trailing into the soft pubic hair and reaching the base of the Elf’s neglected shaft. But Legolas’ had stilled the Man’s actions and through his eyes had asked Éomer to wait. Then he had poured more oil onto his hand and had run it down his own back, disappearing into a place where Éomer had never been, and the Horse Lord had realized with mixed feelings of excitement and horror, that the Elf was preparing himself. By now the Man’s member was thoroughly coated and aching to be touched again, but Éomer had not relieved himself, rooted to the spot by the intensity of Legolas’ eyes that had turned indigo with desire. 

After a few moments, Legolas had gently pushed the Man away, walking past the Horse Lord to a patch of particularly lush green grass surrounded by the encircling trees, removing any other items of clothing that he still wore. Then the Elven King had settled on the grass, supporting himself on his hands and knees as he waited for the Man to take his place. 

Éomer had stood beside the tree, slightly dumbfounded. He had known what he was expected to do and yet could not bring himself to do it. There was something about the sight of the Elf, pure and ethereal in a position so enticing, that both sedated and further aroused him. He had walked towards the Elven King with uncertain steps, his breathing ragged. 

“You wish for me to ride you like some kind of beast?” Éomer had said incredulously. 

The Elf had looked back at him with a sly smile and had replied, “No, Éomer. I wish for you to ride me like a man.” 

It was all the encouragement that the Rohan King had needed to slip off his boots and slide down the rest of his breeches. Then he had bent down to run his hand along the curve of the Elf’s back, tracing the side of Legolas’ smooth buttock as though he were caressing the flank of his most beloved steed. He had settled behind the Elf, slowly stretching his wider body over Legolas’ more slender form, until his hands were beside the Elf’s on the grass. Legolas could feel the head of the Man’s pulsing arousal between his cheeks but Éomer made no further move to enter him. 

“Come inside me,” Legolas had whispered, his voice swirling around the Man as though it were carried by the wind. “I am not made of glass.” 

Sensing that his words of reassurance had not been enough for his partner, Legolas had grasped Éomer’s right wrist and had placed the Man’s hand firmly on his hip to give Éomer more leverage. Slowly, the Horse Lord had begun to push himself inside, almost overwhelmed by the tight heat that surrounded him. The Elf’s passage did not give like the soft folds of a woman’s body, and though Legolas had prepared them both, the channel had been drier than he was accustomed to. Nor could he have imagined the amount of pain and discomfort he must have been causing the Elf by this intrusion. 

Legolas had sucked in his breath, willing himself to relax as Éomer had filled him. The Man was truly well endowed. But when Éomer was fully sheathed, he had stilled his actions once more, afraid of causing his partner more pain. What Legolas had neglected to mention to his new lover was that stillness caused him more discomfort than the feeling of the Man moving inside him. Believing in the effectiveness of action, the Elf had elected to show the Horse Lord instead by moving forwards and then driving back, impaling himself on the Man’s shaft. The sudden movement had almost undone the Man and he had let out an involuntary cry, his grip on the Elf’s hip hard enough to mar the silken skin. His inhibitions stripped, Éomer had begun to thrust, establishing the easy rhythm of a canter over rolling fields, a pace that the Elf had matched. But before Éomer could lose himself in that sweet tightness, Legolas had grasped his wrist again and had brought the Man’s hand to his member. Éomer had felt the throbbing shaft in his hand as Legolas had guided his strokes, mirroring the pace of the Man’s thrusts. Confident that Éomer would maintain the synchronized rhythm on his own, Legolas had released the Man’s hand to support both their weight. The Elf’s breathing was ragged now and he had hung his head so that his sweat-soaked hair fell over his face like a dampened curtain. He would come soon. 

When Éomer had felt the Elf’s seed spill into his hand, he had released Legolas’ softening member and had returned his grip to the Elf’s hip, now loosened by the slickness of the substance on his hand. He had closed his eyes and concentrated on achieving his own climax, feeling the intensity of a white fire burning behind his eyes until it exploded in a myriad of stars. He had fallen on top of the Elf’s body, hardly able to support himself and had rested his head on Legolas’ now glistening back. Legolas had smiled to himself contentedly, his breathing slowing down and returning to normal as he had gently lowered them to the ground, allowing the Man on top of him to slide off his back and lay beside him on the grass. 

Éomer had never known such bliss as he had stretched himself on the grassy floor and he had turned his head to look at his lover. Legolas’ head was propped in his left hand as he traced the Man’s brow with his right, following the contour of Éomer’s bearded cheek. The Horse Lord had kissed the pads of the Elf’s fingertips as they had brushed by his lips, finally leaning forward to capture the Elf’s lips in a kiss filled with gratitude and thanks. He had drowsed off soon afterwards and would have been content to stay in the Éadig Fields with the Elf by his side if Legolas had not urged him to rise, reminding the Man that they had left abruptly and without word, no doubt causing their subjects much undue distress. Éomer had reluctantly agreed and half an hour later both Kings were properly dressed and on their steeds, heading back to Edoras. Indeed, so concerned had Heardred been by his liege’s unusual disappearance that he had sent out several small scouting parties to look for the King, one of which Éomer and Legolas encountered on their return journey. 

Éomer had given no explanation for his mysterious behavior – for a King does not need to give excuses – but all could see that he was in high spirits, and the evening meal was a good-humored affair. Nevertheless Éomer had found himself in his study afterwards to attend to the work he had neglected during the day. It was then that he had remembered what he had originally wished to speak to Legolas about before the incident with Lossendir and Wilhelm had sidetracked him. 

As if on cue there had been a knock at his door and the Elven King had stepped inside, another playful smile on his face. Éomer had only maintained his stoic visage for a few seconds before shaking his head. It had become quite clear to him that Legolas was going to be a terrible distraction. And that was how he had ended up in his bed, spent and sated after another session of lovemaking, with the Elf still teasingly rubbing his inner thighs, willing the Man to spread his legs, which Éomer did. He moaned as the Elf cupped his tender sacs before proceeding to his still soft member. 

“So soon?” Éomer murmured, despite feeling himself already responding to the Elf’s touch. 

“Is the King of Riddermark not fabled for his stamina?” Legolas asked. 

The challenge roused the Horse Lord and Éomer quickly turned around, dislodging the Elf from his position, so that both lovers lay side by side facing each other. 

“Do you dare question my stamina?” Éomer replied in mock offense. 

“Shall you prove your worth?” the Elf countered. 

Éomer laughed. If he allowed himself to be goaded by Legolas at every turn he would indeed be testing the boundaries of his stamina. 

“A King’s worth may be proven in many ways,” Éomer answered enigmatically. 

“You shall have to enlighten me,” Legolas said lightly, “since ruling a kingdom is one of the few avenues where your experience outweighs mine.” 

“It has not been that long,” Éomer said, thinking back upon his history with the Elf. “Do you remember how we first met?” he asked, suddenly changing the subject. 

“As I recall,” Legolas answered, “you practically accused me of being a spy.” 

“So I did,” Éomer replied bemused. “And you threatened to kill me.” 

“You were being exceedingly obnoxious to the Dwarf,” Legolas added. “Though in hindsight . . .” he trailed off, eyes twinkling in the moonlight that filtered into the darkened room, making the Man chuckle at his insinuation. “Do you still think me a spy?” Legolas asked after a while. 

“The most insidious kind,” Éomer said gravely. “One who persistently invades my thoughts to tease and tantalize me, thoroughly distracting me from much more important affairs.” 

“Such as?” 

“Such as the matter I came to speak with you about today, before that incident with Wilhelm and Lossendir.” 

“Yes,” the Elf sighed, rolling onto his back and clasping his hands over his stomach. “What were you going to tell me?” 

“I have good news,” Éomer said, propping his head up in his right hand. “I received Caedmon’s reply and he has agreed to allow Wilhelm to enter my service.” 

“That is good news,” Legolas agreed absently. 

“Yet you do not sound pleased.” 

Legolas turned his head to look at the Man. “I am pleased,” he assured him. “But we have also not discussed what to do about Wilhelm and Lossendir.” 

“According to Wilhelm,” Éomer began, “he instigated the whole affair. He seemed quite eager today to take most of the blame.” 

“Even if that were true,” the Elf said grimly, “an affair requires reciprocation. I am shocked by how poorly Lossendir has handled the matter. What are your laws regarding situations such as these?” 

The King of Rohan grimaced. The laws would have the offenders publicly flogged and humiliated, and then exiled by society. 

“I do not think it necessary to go by the letter of the law,” Éomer said after a moment’s pause. “There is a certain amount of hypocrisy in condemning them for their actions when we enjoy each other’s company in my bed,” he couldn’t help but add. 

“True,” Legolas conceded. “But at the same time, our situations are quite different.” He could tell that Éomer was about to disagree, so he quickly covered the Man’s mouth with his hand before Éomer could speak. “Let us not debate this now,” he said. “Rather, let us decide how to handle the matter.” 

Éomer nodded as he lifted the Elf’s hand from his mouth, unable to resist kissing the ridges of Legolas’ knuckles. “I shall leave Lossendir’s punishment to you,” he said. “There will be no trial and no one in Rohan shall know of his offence. If word of this got out, it would irreparably damage the achievements of our joint training program. Of course, how you handle the matter in Greenwood is your discretion.” 

“Discretion is key,” the Elven King agreed. “Although it pains me to do so, I must demote him to the lowest rank among my captains, short of stripping him of the actual rank, and he shall be reassigned once we return to Eryn Lasgalen. Perhaps in time he will manage to work his way through the ranks once more. And what of Wulf?” 

“Wulf,” Éomer repeated with a slight smile. “The boy has certainly earned that nickname. He’s something of a predator, isn’t he?” 

“Especially for one so young,” Legolas said, wondering to himself whether he had misjudged the boy’s character. Unlikely. Echuir would not have chosen a rider that he did not trust and the stallion’s instinct was more fine-tuned than his own. 

“Truthfully,” Éomer began, “I am somewhat at a loss as to how to punish him. Perhaps it would be prudent to wait until the Rhovanion is finished.” 

“That is still in two months time,” the Elf pointed out. 

Éomer nodded thoughtfully. 

“I do not doubt your decision,” Legolas continued, “but in the meantime, you could give the boy additional duties. For example, he could be in charge of cleaning out the royal stables.” 

“Turn him into a stable boy?” Éomer laughed. 

“These are duties he is already familiar with,” the Elf said. “You would merely be expanding their capacity. Menial chores are necessary but tedious. He will find no joy in them.” 

“Very well,” Éomer said, “additional chores will be the start of his punishment.” 

“Since this appears to be settled,” Legolas said, his tone changing in cadence to match the inquisitiveness of his hand that moved over Éomer’s body, “there is the final issue of stamina that you have skillfully managed to evade.” 

“Ah, yes,” the Horse Lord said, as though the topic had completely slipped his mind. He lay on his back as he felt the Elf move over him. Legolas straddled his waist, elegantly draping his slender form over the Man and placing his chin on top of his clasped hands on the Man’s broad chest. 

Éomer enjoyed the feel of another body on top of him, of the lean, sinuous muscles on the Elf’s back as he held Legolas close. There was no womanly softness about the Elven King. Éomer preferred to lead, to dictate, especially in matters of the bedroom but with Legolas he often found himself willing to submit, to follow. The Elf had cleverly made it seem as though the Man had been in the position of power during their lovemaking but Éomer realized now that Legolas had merely been setting up the boundaries and limitations of what he believed the Man could endure. Stamina, the Man thought, indeed comes in many forms, and there was still one kind of submission that Éomer had not yet made. He contemplated this as the Elf leaned over to kiss him and when the kiss ended, Éomer whispered into a pointed ear, “I wish for you to be inside me.” 

Legolas drew away, watching the Man with a keen eye. “Are you sure about this?” he asked, dipping down to plant a kiss at the base of the hollow of the Man’s neck. “There is no need to rush.” 

“I am not rushing,” Éomer replied. “I am living in the present; a moment that may be prolonged and sustained in and of itself, to be enjoyed and cherished in my memory for ever more.” 

Legolas chuckled softly as he heard his words repeated and he shook his head with a slight smile. He would not be able to refuse this Man, and he wondered yet again why mortality was such a weakness for him. Leaning over the Horse Lord, he reached for the small bottle of oil that he had left on top of the bedside table. They had upgraded from weapons’ oil to Legolas’ own personal stash of scented body oil, a lavender and jojoba mixture that Éomer found pleasing. 

“It is best if you turn around,” the Elf instructed him, lifting himself off the Man so that Éomer could roll over onto his stomach. 

Éomer did as he was told, suddenly not so sure about his brave proclamation but knowing in his heart that he trusted the Elf. He could feel Legolas lying on his side next to him. They had resumed their former positions when Éomer had first awoken from his pleasant dreams, and the Elf was once again running his hand soothingly up and down the Man’s back, dipping lower to caress the Man’s firm buttocks. This time Éomer spread his legs without any further encouragement and the Elf stopped his actions only to start them again a moment later, his hand now slicked with oil. 

“Relax,” Legolas whispered, even as Éomer could feel himself involuntarily clenching in anticipation. 

A slender finger slid into the cleft between the Man’s cheeks, circling the puckered opening before pushing inside. Éomer sucked in his breath and exhaled slowly as the finger continued its journey. This _was_ uncomfortable. Soft lips grazed his shoulder blade, distracting him somewhat from the unfamiliar intrusion, but the finger probed deeper causing the Man’s brow to furrow in discomfort. 

“Are you looking for something?” Éomer asked at last through gritted teeth. 

“You will know when I find it,” Legolas replied, licking a bead of sweat that had broken on the Man’s back, the salty taste triggering memories of lovers past, of the smell of the earth itself. He continued his probing until his finger brushed a tiny nub in its path, the Elf immediately recording its position and location. 

“Oh!” the Man gasped, his body jerking in response. So this was what Legolas had been looking for. 

“It makes the invasion more bearable, does it not?” the Elf laughed, his licks now turning into gentle nips. 

“More than just bearable,” Éomer moaned, as the Elf brushed past the nub again, sending another shock of pleasure through his body. 

But the Elf was not through with his preparation, and as the jolt of pleasure faded the discomfort grew as Legolas inserted another digit into the tight passage. Éomer concentrated on his breathing once more, willing himself to relax since his mind had prepared itself for the pleasure that was in store. And the pleasure came in rolling waves as the two fingers undulated against his core, his lower body moving wantonly to accommodate their assault. A third finger was inserted and then a fourth, the pain and discomfort increasing in sensation to counterpoint the bliss, so that the Man was sure he was going mad. 

“Enough!” he cried. “You will undo me.” 

The Elf merely let out a musical laugh, indicating that more would take place before his partner would be ‘undone.’ The fingers disappeared and in their place the weight of the Elf covered him, lighter than he remembered. Legolas brushed away the remainder of the Man’s hair from his back and placed a kiss on Éomer’s shoulder before whispering into the Man’s ear, “There will be pain and great discomfort. You will feel as if your body is being split in two but these feelings shall subside. Nay,” the Elf corrected himself, “they shall be overtaken by the pleasure I shall give you and your senses will be overridden by ecstasy. I trust,” Legolas said, lips curving into a small smile, “that the King of the Mark has the stamina to endure this task?” 

“We shall see,” Éomer said, his half-erect member hardening at the Elf’s words. 

With one final kiss, Legolas poured more oil onto his hand and then guided himself to the entrance of the Man’s tight opening, thoroughly coating himself in the process. He breached the entrance with the tip of his member and then withdrew, repeating the action several times until he was fully sheathed. Éomer grimaced at each attempt. He did not know whether he preferred Legolas’ considerate actions, which seemed excruciatingly long to him, or for the Elf to simply drive himself inside in one motion. All he was certain of during that time was that his lover was longer and broader than he remembered from taking the Elf into his mouth or from feeling the Elf’s member in his hand. If Legolas had been less well endowed, the pain might also have been less. 

But the Man soon changed his mind when his partner began to move, hitting his pleasure center with his first thrust and he let out a cry of approval. The pain receded as Éomer had expected it to, surpassed by the waves of pleasure that he had felt before, only now they crashed into him with greater intensity. His mouth fell open as incoherent moans slipped from his lips; he was dimly aware of the Elf biting his flesh, no doubt leaving his mark upon the Horse Lord. Then Legolas wrapped a strong arm around his waist, lifting the Man off the bed to roll him onto his side, his body now spooned against the Elf’s, not once breaking his rhythm. Éomer’s head rolled back and with his free arm he groped behind him, finally grabbing hold of Legolas’ buttock. He gripped it painfully, feeling it rise and fall with the Elf’s thrusts, as he urged Legolas on. His breathing was quick and shallow and just when he was certain he could take no more, a hand closed upon his aching member moving in time to the shaft inside him. 

Éomer came first, his body wracked by the spasms of his own release as Legolas continued to move to his own internal rhythm. With one final thrust, the Elf came and Éomer felt the warm seed spill into his passage. He hissed as the substance burned his sore walls, but as with all their activities that night, the feeling subsided into one of pleasure and contentment. The hand that had urged the Elf on now traveled up Legolas’ back to curl itself in the Elf’s sweat-soaked hair as Éomer turned around to pull his lover down for a kiss. Legolas obliged, tasting the wind and the earth that belonged only to the King of Rohan.


	12. Epilogue

The joint training program between the kingdom of Rohan and the Elven realm of Eryn Lasgalen was concluded one week later. Legolas, however, was unwilling to leave the vast plains of the Riddermark just yet and elected to extend his stay for at least another week. Most of his people did not share his sentiments and longed for the lush forests and clear streams of their homeland, so the Elven King allowed them to return, only retaining a suitable escort of guards for his own journey. Lossendir he sent back to Greenwood with new instructions for his councilors who were running the kingdom in his absence, as well as orders for the Captain’s demotion and immediate reassignment. 

Wilhelm had been conscripted into the service of Rohan’s Royal Guard and was now under the direct instruction of Heardred. His parting with Lossendir had been terse and brief, but there had been no mistaking the look of sadness that had filled his eyes as he had watched the Elven Captain mount his steed and ride away. He had bowed his head and swallowed the lump in his throat, unwilling to shed a tear but when the boy had glanced up again he had felt the unmistakable gaze of the King of Greenwood upon him, and it had discomfited him. 

Lord Caedmon briefly visited Edoras for the weekend at the end of the program as a guest of his cousin’s and stayed in the royal wing of Meduseld. He was there to inspect the accomplished trainees of Éomer’s house to find a replacement for his errant squire. Éomer, whose spirits had remained high since coming to terms with his relationship with Legolas, was particularly accommodating and generous to his cousin, a fact that did not escape Caedmon’s notice. 

The two Kings were not as free to enjoy each other’s company as they would have liked, as the Horse Lord was very conscious about maintaining appearances. Furthermore, his exceedingly good humor of late was causing murmurs to circulate around the Golden Hall. Most attributed his general demeanor to a man in love and secretly praised Lothíriel for her positive influence. Indeed, it would be a fine match and their children would be noble and strong. Lothíriel also found her suitor to be more attentive to her than he had been in the past and she was glad, for though the Princess’s heart would forever remain with the sea, she had begun to warm to the plains of Rohan and knew that with time and effort she could find happiness with the King of the Mark. 

Éomer had already found happiness and its name was Legolas. To give them more privacy and to lessen his fear of discovery, the Rohan King had requested a room in the guest wing of Meduseld to be continuously maintained for certain unnamed guests. He had informed his servants that these mysterious guests would come and go as they pleased, for their business was of a clandestine nature and therefore would not join the King’s family and household for meals or any other communal activities. Their presence was not to be discussed, as secrecy was essential to the success of their designs. 

It was to this guest room that the two Kings escaped whenever the opportunity arose, covering themselves in worn hunting cloaks with their hoods pulled low over their heads to avoid recognition. The room was far from the busier halls of Meduseld where isolated cries of pleasure would easily go unnoticed. Éomer had come to think of the place as their secret sanctuary and time indeed seemed to stop whenever he was with the Elf. The Man was not blind to his growing feelings for his lover but kept them to himself as Legolas was not keen to discuss such matters. Instead, the Elf’s mantra to ‘live for the present’ remained foremost in the Man’s mind, which was precisely what he was doing now as he lay on his side on the large bed feigning sleep. He loved to watch Legolas after their lovemaking, for the Elf would slip out of bed when he believed the Man to be asleep and begin tidying up the room, picking up the clothes that were usually hastily discarded and folding them neatly. “Covert business,” he had once told the Man, “does not mean that your mysterious guests must live like slobs.” 

Then the Elven King would put on one of the rich, velvet robes that always adorned the closets of guest rooms. Leaving the robe loose and untied, for the material was impractical and too hot for summer, the Elf would pad soundlessly to the table at the center of the room where a tray of food, particularly the fresh fruits and berries that he favored as well as different types of bread, was always replenished. Éomer had discovered an endearing secret of the Elf’s and that was nothing stirred Legolas’ appetite like an hour of lovemaking. 

Lovemaking. 

Éomer played with the word in his mind as he admired Legolas’ profile; how the golden hair flowed freely over the Elf’s shoulders and contrasted with the dark maroon hue of the robe; how he espied the slender form of the Elf’s member as Legolas leaned over the table to pick an orange from the fruit arrangement; how the flat abdomen moved in time to the Elf’s breathing and the sinewy muscles of Legolas’ swift and strong legs. 

Lovemaking. 

That was what they did, was it not? They made love. Somehow Éomer did not think that Legolas would agree, nor would the Elf be eager to debate semantics on the topic. Nevertheless, the Horse Lord heard himself say, “Are many people privy to the knowledge that lovemaking whets your appetite so?” 

The Elf turned his head to look at the Man, smiling as he piled more food onto his plate before heading to the bed’s side where Éomer moved over to give him room to sit. 

“My list of lovers is not so very long, if that is what you mean,” Legolas replied, placing the plate of food before the Man. 

Length was relative, Éomer reflected, for one who had several millennia behind them and eternity before them but he merely smiled and said persistently, “Have you loved all these lovers?” 

“I have loved each in their own way,” Legolas said, “and many of them, I love still.” 

Éomer nodded thoughtfully, reaching across to grasp the Elf’s soft member and fondling it in his hand. 

“What we share,” Legolas continued, his member showing renewed interest in the Man, “is not the kind of love you desire.” 

“No,” Éomer agreed, redoubling his efforts on the Elf’s hardening shaft. “But it could be.” 

Legolas did not reply but lifted the plate of food and placed it on the bedside table, slowly moving over the Man with his feline grace as Éomer enveloped him with his legs, and he was caught once again in the turbulent passion of the Man’s kiss. 

Later, when both lovers were dressed and prepared to go their separate ways to avoid notice, Éomer impulsively pulled the Elf back in just as Legolas was about to leave. The sudden motion threw back the Elf’s hood to reveal his head of golden hair and the surprised expression on his face. Before he could open his mouth to speak, Éomer covered it with another kiss, wondering how he could make Legolas understand. But Legolas understood well enough. He felt it in the way Éomer’s tongue slid possessively against his own, in the pressure the Man exerted on the small of his back as he held the Elf protectively, in the intoxicating scent of the Rohan King that had begun to invade his dreams. While his heart sung at this unexpected gift offered by the King of the Mark, the Elf’s mind refused to be swayed. His weakness for mortality would not be his undoing. 

As the kiss deepened, a figure silently shifted in the shadows at the end of the deserted hallway, watching the scene with keen interest before turning around and walking away.


End file.
